by Barry Wolfe
Two wing side chairs covered in badly worn maroon and gold cut velvet flanked the 6’ high cream-painted fireplace. Above the fireplace carved in aged wood is the Greek acronym for BOSS. Along the mantle are several African pieces made of bronze and brass. A large oriental rug is rolled up against one wall leaving open to full view the dark wood plank floor that has been dulled from use. A dark mahogany table is situated between the couch and side chairs. It’s covered with empty beer cans and mangled pizza covers, apparently from a New Year’s Eve party.
A few moments later, I see a tall, muscular dark man descending the stairs. He has the demeanor of a proud African chieftain. He’s wearing the same grey sweater with orange Greek lettering as Horn Rims, but he is dressed in sharply creased black slacks instead of jeans. He stares at me severely and says, “I am the Negus of B.O.S.S., but I am better known as Lloyd Redmayne.” He turns to point at Horn Rims who has been following him down the stairs. “And this is Colby Betterman, the Parliamentarian of B.O.S.S.”
“Great to meet both of you,” I say.
“And you are Izzy White?”
“That’s right; Izzy White,” I answer, trying to lighten the mood.
The Negus continues to stare at me coldly and suggests, “That is truly one weird name.” His eyes widen and he doubles over with laughter. Colby Betterman does the same. This abrupt change in mood breaks down my own stiff demeanor and I laugh with them. The three of us continued to laugh for the next few minutes, and I already begin to feel like a BOSSman. My laughter seems to offend the Negus whose cold look has returned and who says in a stern voice, “What you laughing at?”
“I’m sorry, I-I uh,” The Negus resumes his high-pitched laughter, his entire body shaking with mirth. “I’m just messing with ya, Izzy.” I respond with a nervous laugh.
“You know Izzy,” the Negus continues, “we’re a little different kind of fraternity, so I better tell you about BOSS and see if you think it’ ill be a good fit for you.”
“Sure, that would be helpful.”
“The fraternity got started about ten years ago when our three founders quit the pledge lines of the Alphas, the Kappas, and the Ques, respectively. They agreed that these fraternities try too hard to ape the white fraternities and are not a proper conduit for the development of black manhood. They just help to produce more members into the Black Bourgeoisie. Have you read that book, Izzy?”
“What book?”
“Black Bourgeoisie” by E. Franklin Frazier. You know he’s the Chairman of Howard’s Sociology Department.”
“No I haven’t. I’ve heard of it, but I haven’t read it.
“The Professor’s thesis is that the BBs want to differentiate themselves from the masses of poor Negroes. But they can’t because of the total rejection we all feel from the white world. This rejection makes them feel inferior, and they try and compensate for this sense of inferiority by creating a world of make believe in order to manufacture their wished-for status in America. Originally, social distinctions among Negroes were based on family background and color snobbishness. Light-skinned mulattoes, who themselves were products of the rapes of slaves by their masters, thought they were better than their darker brothers and sisters. So they began to ape the upper class patterns of rich white folk. They do crazy shit like having cotillions and coming out parties for new debutants as if they were a super-rich upper class society. All this make-believe is heralded by the Negro Press, which makes a big deal about any so-called event of Negro High Society. All of the Rag-mags like Ebony and Jet constantly exaggerate the alleged achievements of the BBs. Seems like anytime a nigger shows up somewhere in a tuxedo, his picture appears in Jet.” The Negus laughs at his little joke and continues.
“The main way Negroes try to differentiate themselves is by money. Members of so-called Negro society are not rich. They include members of the professions and men and women of business who have enough money to engage in conspicuous consumption. But they are by no means rich. Far from it! They mortgage their homes so that they can afford to buy vacation homes in upper class vacation spots such as Sag Harbor and Oak Bluffs. But even in those places they are allowed to buy only in small, gilded Black ghettos. The traditional fraternities and sororities play a significant role in grooming Black brothers and sisters for this misguided lifestyle. Their approach to life is fantasy-ridden; their values are hollow, and their psychic lives are spent in guilt, conflict, and low self-esteem.”
I’m taken aback by his use of this offensive sobriquet for Black people in front of me, but I’m even more stunned by this withering critique of American Negroes. I have heard something like it before from those Howard students who originally hailed from the Caribbean, such as Brandon Blackwell and Winston McKenzie. It’s beginning to dawn on me that there are a significant number of students at Howard who are rebelling against the black middle-class life style-the so-called Black Bourgeoisie. And I have to admit they seem to be making a pretty good case. The Negus continues: “Now BOSS desires to help create a different kind of Black man, one who is simultaneously idealistic and cool; one who believes in doing well by doing good. BOSS men are neither selfless nor selfish. We are both at the same time. Our actions help others even as we help ourselves. I know that may sound contradictory, but it’s not. It is factual.”
“That has some real appeal for me.”
“Glad to hear it, Izzy,” the Negus says off-handedly, apparently not glad at all to hear my interrupting him. “So we are about the repair of the American Negro male’s socialization. The first step in that repair is to reconnect the black man with his true origins, Mama Africa.” With that the Negus goes over to the mantle place where he begins to stroke a brass figure of the head of a regal looking African. “ Come over here, Izzy, I want to show you something. We have been told the big lie by the Tarzan movies. We who originally hail from Africa are not savages. Our ancestors did not live in savage African communities. There have been numerous great African civilizations, Izzy. Centuries ago there were the great Empires of Ghana, Mali, Songhay and Benin. You see this mask here, Izzy. Look at this beautiful work of art. This is a commemorative brass head of an ancient king of Benin. Benin was a highly developed civilization that existed between the early 1300s to the late 1800s.
It was located in what is now southeastern Nigeria. They were great artists in brass, bronze and ivory.” The shock of recognition stands my hair up. I had seen a very similar brass head at Henry Prescott’s house when we both were in high school. I’m struck now, as I was then, by the beautifully formed features, the intricately beaded headdress, the fully formed lips and wide nostrils. I have never found these features beautiful before now. For the first time I see a beautiful woman who looks nothing like Elizabeth Taylor or Jean Simmons, or any other of the movie stars that had defined for me the only standard of beauty I had known. Desirie is so beautiful in her brownness, but her features tilt toward the keen features of white women. The more I stare at this brass figure, the more meaning it has for me. As I listen to the Negus expound with great pride the cloistered African past, I rummage through my memories of what I have thought and learned about Africa and its peoples. And I know that the Negus is right. We got nothing like this view of Africa from the Tarzan movies that gave us so much Saturday afternoon pleasure in the darkened movie theatres of our youth. I lament even more all of the misinformation I have been fed about Africans and about black people in general.
“This is exquisite,” I exclaim.
“The reason I’m showing you this, Izzy, is to make it clear to you that we in B.O.S.S. believe that you cannot separate Black manhood from its African roots. We are not just Americans. We are African Americans. I hate the slave-based term Negro, but we are stuck with it until we can convince our brethren that the term African-American is the more accurate and therefore the more appropriate name for us.”
“Then why would you even consider me?”
“A good question. Have a seat, Izzy,” the Negus commands p
ointing to the velvet couch. Hey Colby, can you get us two cokes. You see, Izzy, even though we emphasize blackness and the unity and identity of black men, we also believe in brotherhood. In fact, it is our contention that once black men can accept their blackness and understand the significance of their rich African roots, they are in a better position to accept the white man as a brother. Another way of putting it is that we need to love ourselves before we can love our white brothers. As you probably know, Black people have bounced back and forth between two positions with respect to the white majority culture--integration, which has often meant giving up one’s black identity, or separation which assumes that the only way black people can be Black and proud is to separate themselves from whites entirely. You are probably most familiar with the case for integration. Were you at the debate between Bayard Rustin and Malcolm X?
“Yes I was.”
“So you know Malcolm and the Black Muslims want to create a black state within the United States. Earlier in the century Marcus Garvey and his United Negro Improvement Association wanted to encourage all American blacks to return to Africa. From our point of view neither makes much sense nor seems feasible. What we fervently hope is that we Black men can learn to value our roots, learn to love ourselves as Black men, and from this position of cultural strength reach out to our white brother. So Mr. Izzy White, our little white brother, we are reaching out to you.”
“After hearing your story, I’m honored that you would even consider me. I’m definitely interested; but if I pledge, what can I expect? I mean what will happen?” Colby Betterman brings us two cokes in large slender glasses filled with crushed ice and garnished with a mint leaf. Such style I think. I flash on an image of our being two Southern Gentlemen sipping mint juleps on a sweltering summer day. The Negus takes a sip of his “coke julep”, eyes me carefully, and returns to his pontifical style of speaking. “The pledge line has already begun, but it would be no problem fitting you in. Once the fraternity as a whole approves you, you will meet your pledge brothers. They are called Peons because they do all of the menial tasks that the BOSS brothers hate to do for themselves. So for the next three weeks, you will be a Peon for every BOSS brother. Now we are reasonable men so we don’t overdo the bossing around. You’ll see; it’s not too bad. After that is Hell Week during which we will test your mettle. Now it’s definitely not hazing. We don’t do that. But it can be strenuous and somewhat challenging. I can already tell in the short time I’ve known you, Izzy, you will pass with flying colors.” I’m not as convinced as the Negus about how I will fare during the next four weeks, but I decide to give it a try. When I take my leave of the fraternity house, I find that the weather has changed and not for the better. The brisk but sunny morning has given way to a freezing grey and rainy afternoon. I take the weather’s deterioration as an opportunity to second-guess my decision to pledge BOSS. My sleep that night is frequently interrupted by dreams of predatory BOSS brothers making my life a living hell as a Peon. When I awaken, however, I remind myself that I have made a commitment to try to a join a a fraternity. So try I will. I receive a call that evening to inform me that the fraternity has approved of my becoming a Peon.
The next afternoon I return to the frat house to meet my five fellow Peons. Colby accompanies me into one of the back rooms of the fraternity house, which is furnished with the same eclectic combination of well-to-do days gone by and Africana. Apparently, all six Peons are to meet here after lunch every day (that we don’t have an afternoon class) to do the bidding of any BOSS brother. Colby introduces me to my five line mates who sit around a well-worn mahogany table.
“Izzy, facing you on the far side of the table is John Clark. We call him Iron John because we believe he’s the strongest cat on campus. John’s a sophomore engineering major. On his right is Dex the Hex Dexter Gamble, a junior chemistry major. He creates chemical concoctions in the laboratory that he believes will put a spell on anyone who offends or mistreats him. To his right is Byron Frazier. Byron is an English major whose aspiration is to write the Great Black American Novel. Next to Byron is Bill Gadfry who is affectionately known as Gadfly. He’ s the comedian of the group and, in fact, wants someday to be a stand-up comic. The last Peon here is Mel Gray. We call Mel, X-Ray, because he seems to have the rare ability of peering into men’s souls.” I knew X-Ray by sight because I had noticed him in my Introduction to Psychology class. He invariably looks at you with such intensity that it makes you wonder what he’s trying to see. Like me, he has just become a psychology major. While everyone else gives me a cursory nod of greeting, X-Ray smiles at me in a way that suggests that we have a lot in common.
After I have been introduced to my line mates, Colby marches us into the living room where the Negus and the rest of the BOSS brothers are gathered. The Negus bellows “Welcome Peons,” at which he breaks out into a malicious sounding cackle, and the rest of the fraternity cackles along with him. A group of the brothers all wearing gloves saunter toward us and stick a beanie on top of our heads. The Negus orders us to wear these beanies whenever we are in the presence of a BOSS brother. It isn’t long before we all detect an unpleasant odor. In fact it’s the unmistakable smell of urine. “Since you are now Peons,” the Negus said, “these Peon caps in fact have been peed on by your big brothers by way of welcoming you to your new status. The BOSS brothers crack up at this, while the six of us cry in unison, “Aw shit man!”
“Now , now men,” the Negus cautions, “This is your first test in becoming a Boss man and remember, you are not to remove these pre-treated caps in our presence as a sign of respect for your brothers-to-be. “
So that is the beginning of the three weeks preceding Hell Week. One of our major tasks is to clean up after the BOSS brothers. They purposely leave trash, half-eaten food, overturned cans and soda for us to clean up. Each of us is assigned specific times for bathroom clean-up duty. There they would leave the toilet bowl yellowed with urine with large, doubtfully human turds in copious quantities unflushed. Semen-drenched sheets then must be washed and beds remade. And as we perform these housekeeping duties, we’re subjected to constant verbal abuse. Every body part is commented upon and condemned or deemed insufficient in form and/or function. The three weeks preceding hell week are pretty hellish. At first the Peons feel like brothers-of-the damned and are unified in our common misery. But as time goes on, we begin to take our misery out on each other. We accuse one another of “shirking the shit” and therefore leaving more of it for others to clean. The main form of communication now is sniping at one another for real or imagined slights, insults, and other injustices. It reaches a point where we’re fighting about how we are expressing our grievance to one another rather than the specific grievance itself. In fact, we often forget what the original grievance was about.
The exception to this every-man-for-himself griping that shakes the fraternity house walls is Mel and me. We have each other’s back. If he begins to slack in his effort to be an adequate Peon, I help him out, cheer him up, and make him laugh. If I get down and disgusted about our duties or the verbal abuse we’re getting from the Brothers, he’s there to console, or calm me, or even to do some of my chores if I just can’t hack it on a given day. As my confidence in my ever hacking it as a BOSS pledge sours, my gratitude and regard for Mel soars. My best guess is that Mel is feeling the same way about me.
The coup de grace in meaningless abuse comes with the shoes. Those 20 brothers must each own 10 pairs of shoes, and the Peons have to shine them all. None of us can imagine ever completing this tedious task. Whenever we finish shining one pair of shoes, there’s always another pair waiting in a designated spot to be shined. By the middle of the third week I have had it. I start making noises about leaving the line.
Mel prevails upon me to meet for lunch at the cafeteria in the Student Union one blustery, cold January day. I arrive first and am therefore able to have the pleasure of viewing his arrival. He is a lanky, thin six-footer who moves with all the grace and eleganc
e of a ballet dancer. Yet the walk is all rhythm and blues, smooth, sexy and cool. His dark chocolate skin color against his khaki shirt adds to his appeal. We both get in line and search for the edible lunch options. Since there are no BOSS Brothers around, we do not have to wear our peed-on caps, which would have made any option unpalatable. I settle for a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a roll.
Mel’s explicit aim is to try and talk me out of quitting the line. “Look Izzy, Hell week begins next week and then we can cross over the burning sands and become BOSS men. You can last one more week can’t you?” He stares at me with pleading, raven black eyes as if he’s an about-to-be rejected lover fighting to save the relationship. He buys a large lunch, which he barely touches. “I’m not sure I can, Mel. What’s the point of enduring all of this shit and abuse?”
“It’s to make a man of you, to test your physical prowess, and it’ll give you a taste of what the black man experiences at the hands of white people.”
“So this is about racial revenge?”