Izzy White?

by Barry Wolfe

  “White men look that way to me. Y’all look like ghosts.”

  “Well, I ain’t no ghost.”

  Hill then changes his tune, and begins to act like a subservient slave. With obsequious servile movements, and in a high pitched voice reminiscent of the “Lightening” character on the Amos and Andy TV show, he says, “Oh ah’s sorry little white massa. Next game, I make’s sure I hand’s yo the ball.“ Now he’s bugging his eyes out and scratching his head, he adds, “Maybe, I’s hands it to ya on a silver platter.” My response to this ugly display is to ask him to stop being a putz. “Putz?“ Hill exclaims. That’s a Jewish word isn’t it?” He then addresses everyone else in the locker room, “Did y’all know that we have a kike among us.” I turn crimson and before I can stop myself, I retort, “If I’m a kike, then you must be a nigger.” He leaps from the bench and is about to throttle me, but is grabbed by several of our teammates. Nobody can look me in the eye. Walter Harrison says in his very quiet way. “Aw Izzy, that was uncalled for.”

  “I know, Walter, and I’m terribly sorry. But Clay has no business calling me a kike.”

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right, Izzy,” Walter answers, his voice filled with dejection and disappointment. With great remorse I whine, “I know, I know! It just came out of me.“ I attempt to apologize to the remaining teammates in the locker room, “GUYS, I’M SORRY!” Several remain silent and continue getting dressed. A few mumble a form of forgiveness, “Tha’s cool, Izzy.” Clayborne won’t even look at me, probably to keep himself from killing me.

  I sit alone in the locker room for a long time thinking about what just happened. I can’t believe I had used that word and with hostility. I remember what Linc and Whee Willie told me last year when the three of us talked about my ever saying the word nigger. Linc had said, “It’s not skin color, Izzy,. 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 Whee had added, “In every black man you meet, there is a scar as old as slavery and you best not pick at it. You can’t see it, but by God it’s there.” Then I was talking about using the word as a sign of friendly belonging. When I insulted Clayborne, I sounded like every other white bigot I detested. I had come to Howard to rid myself of racist venom, and here it squirts out at the first sign of attack from a black man. I’m failing again.

  If I thought Hill put me on a starvation diet during the St. Paul game, during our next game against Lincoln, he makes me feel like I was in solitary confinement. He does not pass the ball to me once. During the first half I don’t mind. I think of the freeze out as penitence for my verbal crime. During the second half, however, I begin to get upset. After all, I’m playing in order to help the team win, and I’ m supposed to do that by scoring. But the only time I score is when I take over the point guard job while Hill takes a breather on the bench, and I set up my own shot. Hill and Grant are sensational, however, and we win the game on the strength of their combined shooting skill.

  Occasionally, I do learn from experience. Our next game against Hampton is to be our last game before the Christmas break. I beg the coach to let me play the point. Since no vocal opposition comes from either Hill or Grant, the coach is inclined to say yes. During the first half, I’m still functioning in penitent mode. I dutifully distribute the ball to my four teammates and rarely take a shot. Nonetheless, by halftime, we are leading by five points. I have accumulated six points on the strength of my foul shooting. Every time I drive the middle, defenders collapse on me, and I pass the ball off to a player on the wing. I do mean collapse; because in their attempts to slap the ball away from me, they invariably slap me. It’s like running a gauntlet.

  In the second half, I change tactics. Now I distribute the ball to me as well as my four teammates on the floor. And I’m hot. I’m making jump shots from everywhere—from the corner and the top of the key. I feign driving to the basket and hit two pull up jump shots as my opponent continues stumbling toward the basket. Coaches always say, “feed the hot hand”, so I feed myself. My final shot is a pull up jump shot. But I have to extend myself as high as I can jump because my opponent isn’t fooled. Before I release the ball, I have to adjust its position to avoid my defender blocking it. That pulls my body out of its normal position. As I come down, I hear a pop; and I’m overtaken by a level of pain in my knee that I didn’t know was possible for a human to feel. I lie sprawled out on the floor writhing in agony. I can faintly hear the cheers of the crowd because the ball apparently has successfully gone into the basket. I have scored my 19th and 20th point and have given our team a winning lead. I have also dislocated my kneecap. It has drifted to the right of my leg; and to my pain-altered vision, my kneecap now resembles a large tilting tumor sitting on my leg. As I’m carried off to the locker room, the crowd gives me a standing ovation. But one person (who stands out from all the rest) is standing holding her cheeks with horror in her eyes, a poignant contrast amidst the resounding cheers. It’s Desirie. I weakly wave and smile in her direction, but I’m not sure if she sees me wave. The sight of her concern for me triggers the long dormant feelings I have for her. Now the pain of her loss returns and magnifies the pain of my physical injury. Once in the locker room, the team trainer has placed my leg in a splint. I will soon graduate to crutches. And for the next uncountable collection of days, I have one more pain to demoralize me even further. I now have to try and accept the inexorable reality that my college basketball career is over.

  Christmas is not my holiday, but I love it anyway. It truly seems to be a season of good will. People seem nicer; and either because of or despite the rampant commercialism of the holiday, people are in a giving mood. But what really stands out for me is the music, particularly Handel’s “Messiah”. In my humble opinion there has been no greater piece of music ever written. I am not a religious person, but the music does inspire. Rumor has it, Handel wrote all 186,000 notes in 24 days. Amazing! And every Christmas day, I watch one of my favorite movies-the 1951 version of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”, starring the gifted British comedic actor, Alistair Sim. More than any other characterization of Ebenezer Scrooge I have ever seen, Sim truly captures the bitter, stingy man who fears being crushed by the world, and who therefore develops a mean and uncaring persona in defense. Then through the visitation of three Christmas spirits, he breaks through the defensive cover to reveal his jovial, good-hearted core. As I sit on the couch watching this movie for the umpteenth time, it occurs to me that the journey Scrooge takes is not unlike what I imagine a successful psychotherapy to be like. In my Introduction to Psychology class, we’re learning about the different approaches to psychotherapy. The early psychoanalytic therapies that focused on peoples’ defenses against their true nature actually stir my blood. Maybe psychology is for me. As I look back on my own life, I can point to so many events and relationships that I know have helped shape the person I have become. It seems to me at that moment that becoming a psychotherapist might be great fun, always interesting, and often rewarding when I can help a person get past their problems and begin to live a more satisfying life. During the rest of Christmas day at least, I feel a jolt of optimism over the prospect that I may yet snatch a successful career at Howard University from the jaws of confusion. I promise myself then and there that I’ll spend the rest of my Christmas vacation reading anything that pertains to psychology and psychotherapy. My commitment to solitary reading lasts all of two days.

  Chapter

  19.

  Negus With Attitude

  Except for Christmas Day, the Holidays are barren. There is no love, no glory, no sense of connection to the university. And there’s not much physical activity since I’m hobbling around on crutches. Two and a half years into my university experience, I’m still feeling alienated, lonely, and a failure. I have failed in my so-called love affair with Desirie; failed as a neophyte civil rights activist; and ultimately a failure in my career as a varsity basketball player. Even my new en
thusiasm for psychology cannot quell the gloom that has come over me. In my “white” world, I fare little better. Except for The Three Miscreants my connections to my high school friends have seriously deteriorated. Most of them are at other colleges. Many are at nearby University of Maryland joining fraternities, having wild parties, getting laid. None of that is happening for me. Even James, Peter, and Bobby are developing lives independent of my everyday life. I still see them, but very infrequently.

  On the Saturday after Christmas, I automatically dial the phone numbers of Peter, Bobby, and James. I urgently need to talk to someone. James is the only one who answers. I implore him to meet me somewhere so we can talk. An hour later, we’re sitting across from one another at the Silver Spring Hot Shoppes ordering an early lunch. His raven–black flattop has had a recent mowing, which sharpens his already keen features: his prominent, high cheek bones, pointed nose, and piercing black eyes. It’s only after we have both ordered our Mighty Mo’s that James asks in his customarily dry manner, “What’s going on, Izzy?” His expression suggests a combination of compassion and impatience. He seems to be bracing for another one of my patented monologues of self-deprecation. I put my head in my hands and begin to shake it. “Shit, James, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t’ve gone to Howard.” James sighs. “Why are saying this now?”

  “Because, I’m a failure. I’ve failed at everything there.” James shifts into irony mode.

  “That’s some failure. Your way is paid at college for the entire 4 years. You made the basketball team. Your grades aren’t awful and you are biologically intact, since you didn’t go South on the Freedom Rides where you surely would have been beaten to within an inch of your life. Like I said, some failure.”

  “You don’t understand! I have retarded myself socially by going to a predominantly black school.”

  “You didn’t seem to be doing so badly with Desirie. You’ve broken that taboo. Why haven’t you met more black girls or made more male friends there?”

  I have ratcheted up to a full whine. “I don’t know, I don’t know!” Apparently, I whined a little too loudly. When I look up, I see a half-a-dozen heads have turned in my direction, all with perplexed expressions. I look back at James and I see that the compassion that had been evident has now drained from his face and what is left is an expression of sheer exasperation. He takes a deep breath and then says, “Look, Izzy, I have an idea. Did you read a couple of weeks ago about Ernie Davis?” I brighten with curiosity. “Yes he won the Heisman Trophy and is the first Negro to do so. He’s such a great back. He’s going to the Cleveland Browns. With him and Jim Brown in that backfield, the Browns will be unstoppable.”

  “Yeah, well, I also heard a rumor that the Sammies let him into their fraternity.”

  “The Sammies?” I ask.

  “You know, the Jewish Fraternity at Syracuse, Sigma Alpha Mu; hence Sammies.”

  “So what’s that got to do with me?”

  “Well, he’s the first Negro to join a white fraternity. How about you being the first white to join a black fraternity at Howard?” My mind flashes to a conversation I had with my teammate, Hank Dobson, about Omega Psi Phi. “Izzy, I think you should really consider going on line with the Qs. If you show any interest, I think the Qs would be willing to break the color line for you.” “Really?” I ask. “What do I have to do to become a pledge?”

  “Well, first I have to run it by the Grand Basileus and he would have to run it by the membership committee.”

  “And if they approve me, then what?”

  “You’d have to have your head shaved and fork over $200.”

  “Say what? Let me get this straight. In order to enter a line, I have to give you all my hair and more money than I possess. Hank, don’t get me wrong, it would be an honor to be the first white member of Omega Psi Phi, but I can’t afford it. Sorry man, I just can’t do it.”

  “I guess that feels like you’re being ‘scalped’ twice,” Hank said with a chuckle. “But think about it, Izzy. Becoming a fraternity man, particularly a member of the Qs, would be the capstone of your education at Howard. You know, Omega Psi Phi represents the initials of the Greek phrase that means, ‘Friendship is essential to the soul’. And we are dedicated to the Cardinal Principles of Manhood, Scholarship, Perseverance, and Uplift. In other words, Izzy, we will make a man out of you. “ I thought he was asking me to join the Marines. “And you will make friends for life,” he adds. “How about that? Pretty attractive, don’t ya think?” I can clearly see through his eyes, how attractive being a fraternity man can be. But would that life fit me? “Hank, I’ll think about it and let you know.” I didn’t know what else to say. Truth is, I want to join the Qs, but I guess I want my hair and my money more.

  Neither one of us ever brought the subject up again.

  I laugh at that memory but think that James is on to something. “You know James, you’re right. Joining a fraternity may be just the oddball move for me to make for me to feel more connected to Howard. But I’ve never been the fraternity type. I’ve always tried to hang with people from every group, but never wanted to join any of them. But you know what? I need to do something. Thanks, James, you’ve been a big help.” James grins at me. “Well, Roll over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the news!”

  We finish our Mighty Mo’s and leave the Hot Shoppes, which is now bustling with its lunchtime crowd. James drops me back at my apartment and soon I am behind the closed door of my room deep in thought about which fraternity I should try and pledge. I want to avoid the three most prestigious frats on campus, the Kappas, the Alphas, and the Ques, because I know they all haze their pledges mercilessly. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to stand such treatment; and I also fear that because I’m white, I might come in for worse treatment than the other pledges. Instead, I come to the not well thought through conclusion that a more obscure fraternity might be more open to my color and less prone to abusive hazing practices. I discover a fairly new fraternity that was formed at Howard in the last 10 years known as Beta Omicron Sigma Sigma. The acronym suggests their motif. They are the BOSS Men- The coolest of the cool. Following a tradition of several other fraternities, the founders of BOSS had no interest in joining an already existing organization. Like the Phi Beta Sigma founders, the founders of BOSS wanted to be a fraternity that shunned the bourgeois inclinations of the Alphas, Kappas, and the Omegas. On the first day of the new semester, I search for the BOSS fraternity house, which is located several blocks off campus. Its location is as obscure as the fraternity. It’s on the Eastern edge of LeDroit Park. Once a prime area of real estate for prominent black families, LeDroit Park’s older middle class families vacated their homes to buy quality housing left in the wake of white flight to the suburbs. Houses there are now being filled with lower income occupants. The BOSSmen found an old Victorian house that is significantly run down, and they have put their own “cool” stamp on it.

  On the grass fronting the house, there is a small sign with the Greek Letters Beta Omicron Sigma Sigma. They appear to be carved out of aged wood, which gives the feeling of a beach house. Under the letters is the fraternity’s motto, “Home of the Brave and Land of the Cool”. Hanging from the overhead that shades the porch are two ivory African masks.

  I lift the heavy knocker shaped like a lion’s head and let it drop. I do this three times in rapid succession. The sound it makes is reminiscent of the metallic thud on ancient horror movie mansion doors, a sound that made audiences fearful of the anticipated monsters or their makers who lurked within. A studious looking Negro opens the door and stares at me with silent incomprehension. He is a lean six- footer, with dark horn-rimmed glasses wearing a grey sweater with the Greek letters Beta, Omicron Sigma Sigma sewn onto it in orange. Ironically, these were my high school colors, and I immediately take that as a positive omen and begin to relax. “Hello, my name is Izzy White and I’m a Howard student who may be interested in joining your fraternity.” My studious interlocutor’s
eyebrows shoot upward, and his eyes bug out with shock. “You say what, Honky?” Not quite the welcome I had expected. I become a little annoyed. “I want to speak to someone about joining your fraternity. “ Horn rims struggles to keep from laughing in my face. “OK, I think you best talk to the Negus.” Now it’s my turn to stifle my laughter. “The what?

  “The Negus,” he repeats with emphasis. He sees my discomfort in repeating the word Negus and says for my edification, “Not Niggas. It’s Negus.”

  “I assume that is the term for your leader?”

  “Tha’s right. The Ques have their Basileus, the Kappas, their Polemarch and we have our Negus. It’s an Amharic term, which means King.”

  “Oh.”

  Without saying a word, Horn Rims extends his arm into the house beckoning me to enter. Once inside, he says, “Wait here and I will let the Negus know you are here. “ Horn Rims then climbs the wide staircase. I look around the large living room, which creates a feeling of faded opulence. Heavy velvet maroon drape panels hang shabbily on either side of each window. Ecru-colored sheer panels cover the windows so some filtered light is able to come through. The living room is furnished with a large once plush maroon velvet couch with heavily carved mahogany legs.