by Barry Wolfe
“No Izzy, you’re missing the point. It’s about having you feel what we feel when we’re subjected to ‘all this shit and abuse,’ as you put it. This is nothing compared to being thought of and treated as less than men every day by a large majority of white people in this country. Every black man who pledges a black fraternity gets a symbolic taste of what blacks have been through since slavery times. And a pledge’s willingness to endure all this mistreatment and even physical violence by his brothers-to-be is his commitment to being reborn as a worthy black man and member of the fraternity. It’s different in a white fraternity. In white fraternities, they’re just fucking with you. There’s no larger purpose to the bullshit that brothers subject their pledges to.”
“Look Mel, I didn’t come to Howard University to relive the black experience in America but rather to understand it. Where does this hatred and cruelty come from? How did White Supremacy become the norm of human relations between blacks and whites? Why does such an obvious deviation from any known religious ideal of how we should treat one another continue to be the norm? And how has such a perverted form of social relations shaped the black person’s perspective on life.”
“Izzy, you’ll never be able to understand the black experience without experiencing some of that hatred and mistreatment. Here at least it is controlled and limited. Think about the anger you are feeling right now about your treatment by the BOSS Brothers. Imagine that you’re not allowed to express it. What do you think happens to that anger you can’t express? As Langston Hughes asks:
‘Maybe it sags like a heavy load or does it explode?’
Or maybe it just poisons every cell of hope, every dream of being a man in America, like any other man, treated with respect and dignity. There are only a few ways to live with such anger. It may eventually explode, as Langston implies, or it may kill you from within. Or you find a way to use that anger to make you better, stronger, and more determined to succeed in this nigger-hating country even when the odds are so heavily weighted against you.” As Mel talks, I watch how he moves his body, palms up imploring to be understood, head moving from side to side for emphasis, a sway in his torso revealing the power behind his words. It is a graceful ballet of passionate expression. And it moves me.
The next day I inform the Negus that I’m quitting the line. I tell him that this experience confirms something about myself that I already feared is true. I’ m not the fraternity type. He tries very hard to reel me back in and repeatedly attempts to draw out my real reasons for quitting. I spare him my diatribe about the “non-hazing” behavior of the Brothers of BOSS, and about how disappointed I am by the gap between their idealistic aspirations and their actual treatment of the Peons. I saw nothing edifying or potentially redeeming about urine-soaked hats or the frequent assignments to the shit-bowl brigade. He finally relents and says he’s sorry that it didn’t work out. He is very gracious in wishing me well and that softens my anger towards him. For three weeks, I hear nothing from anyone associated with BOSS. I knew I would lose the friendship of all the other brothers, but I had been more hopeful about preserving my friendship with Mel. In early February, I hang around one afternoon after my classes to shoot hoops at the Quonset hut that serves as our gym. There he is shooting 18-foot jumpers around a ring of his own making. He isn’t missing any.
Chapter
20.
“Honky-Nigga”
I watch Mel shoot for a few minutes before announcing my presence. He’s so engrossed in his shooting he hasn’t noticed me. “Mind if I join you?” I finally ask in an almost apologetic tone. He looks over and stares at me coldly for a moment. He then smiles weakly and says, “Sure Izzy.” After I shoot around for a few minutes, I ask Mel if he would like to play Horse. Mel grins and answers with exaggerated enthusiasm, “Why sure, but let me introduce you to the way we play it way down South. It’s the same game really, but we call it “Honky”. I look at him in horror and ask, “You call it what?”
“Honky,” he said. “I take a shot and if I make it, you have to try the same shot. If you miss it, then you get an “H” and so on, just like in Horse. “
“Why do you call it Honky?” Mel chuckles and says, “Oh that’s just the way we black boys down South have some fun. But I tell you what. If it makes you feel better, we’ll call our game Honky-Nigga. If you miss my shot, you get an H and so on, but if I miss one of your shots, I get an N and then an I and so on.” We look at each other and burst out laughing at the same time. Mel begins by making three consecutive 18- foot jump shots. It’s a beautiful sight. His form is perfect. He releases the ball at the top of his jump, perfect back spin, nothing but net. I make the first two, but my third shot rolls around the rim before falling off to the side. “H for you Honky,” croons Mel, cackling as he moves to the next spot to shoot. His fourth shot goes half way down the hoop before popping out. From watching Mel shoot, I conclude that his range is limited to 18 to 20 feet. My sole advantage over him is that I can consistently make jump shots from 23 to 25 feet. I make my first shot and he subsequently misses it. “N for you… uh, uh… Mel”. He cuts his eyes at me and then gives me a sly grin. Out comes an arsenal of fancy shots, right and left handed hooks, 15-foot jump shots that he purposely banks off the backboard, and one left-handed jump shot from about eight feet. Before I know it, I’m at HONK and he’s only at NIG. Then he makes a fatal error. He tries to extend the range of his jump shot by launching one deep from the left wing 22 feet away from the basket. His shot looks like it’s going through, but it bounces off the nearside rim. “Damn!” he mutters to himself. My next two shots are from 25 feet away. I hit them cleanly, but Mel misses them both. “You win,” Mel says begrudgingly. “But it was close, NIGGA to HONK.”
This loss only stimulates his competitive urge. A group of boisterous Intramural players come bounding into the gym at that moment. They see that we own the near half of the court. They wave to us and go to the far half and loudly begin to shoot around.
“OK, Izzy, enough of this Honky-Nigga-shit, let’s go one on one. At first, I don’t give it my all. Despite the skill Mel has shown me, I figure that since I played varsity and he didn’t, I will have an easy time of it. Big mistake! Although I’m shooting well, he matches me shot for shot. Moreover, at 6 feet tall, he uses his height advantage to draw me under the basket where he can shoot over me. What really shocks me is the intensity with which he is playing. He doesn’t just want to win he wants to crush me. I also discover that he is as quick as I am, if not quicker; and he has a variety of smooth and deceptive moves that frequently fool me. I quickly let go of the assumption that I’m going to win easily. I get my game face on, play like it was a college playoff game, and work as hard as I can to prevent my being embarrassed by this obviously very skilled and talented player. The group of Intramural players stop shooting and come to watch what must have appeared to them to be a grudge match. Mel wins 15-13. The group applauds Mel’s winning shot from the corner. We’re both dripping with sweat and decide we have had enough. We sit down on the small set of bleachers that reminds me of the ones we had at Coolidge High School.
“OK, Mel, you’ve been holding out on me. You’ve got some kind of game. You must have played high school ball. Spill man.” Mel has a funny grin on his face. “Yeah, Izzy, I played. I was All-State out of Georgia. “Which high school?” I ask wondering if it could be possible. “Carver High School in Gainesville. Why?”
“I thought so. Then you must know Bob Kinnard.”
“Sure I know him. He was our valedictorian. In fact, he’s partly the reason that I’m here at Howard.”
“Really! How so?”
“He convinced me that with an education at Howard, a Black man could go far. I didn’t know this until I started hanging with Bob, but peoples down our way view Howard as the black Harvard. You see, my father works at a poultry-processing plant, and he’s worked his ass off to make sure that I be the first member of my family to go to college. So I want to make it count.”
“Didn’t you get any basketball scholarships?”
Yeah, I was offered scholarships to two small black schools. But Bob convinced me that I would get a lousy education at these places. I got good grades at Carver, but Bob said we both needed the kind of education that only Howard could offer if we’re gonna make it in the white man’s world. You see, Howard has been recruiting bright but poorly prepared Negro students from the South and placing us in remedial English and math classes during our freshman year so that by the time we’re sophomores, we’d be ready to do college-level work.
“OK, how come you didn’t play for Howard? We sure could’ve used you.”
“The main reason is I’ve got to concentrate on my studies. Howard’s a challenge for me Izzy. Turns out, Bob was right. Our grades at Carver might’ve been tops, but we weren’t prepared for the workload at Howard. Besides, no offense Izzy, but Howard could put together a better team from the stands then they had on the court.” I could feel myself blushing. “You say what?”
“I know at least 8 guys who go to the games regularly who were All-State in high school. Like Bob and me, they come from schools that didn’t prepare them for college. So they’re busting their balls just trying to keep up. These are guys from Florida, Tennessee, Mississippi, Arkansas and the Carolinas. They’ re big, strong and talented. I think Howard would easily win the CIAA championship if they played.”
“If you say so, Mel.” My voice oozes doubt. I’m having great difficulty accepting the truth of his claims.
“It’s true Izzy. Everyone of them’s a complete package. They all can score, rebound, and play D.” I respond with cold silence. The truth hurts me and makes me a little angry. So I attack.
“How come I haven’t heard from you since I got off line. I didn’t expect I’d hear from any of the other pledge brothers, but I thought I’d hear from you.”
“I know that hurt you Izzy and I’m sorry. But I was very disappointed and hurt too when you bailed. I needed time before I could even talk to you. “
“Come on, Mel, you know that BOSS is not a good fit for me. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t buy into its bullshit goals. They’re gonna make a man of me”. I said this with all the mockery that I could muster. “I mean I’m not even black so how can I really fit the BOSS mold. They may not be interested in grooming the next generation of bougie Blacks, but BOSS’s goals still are race-based. How can I connect to my nonexistent African past?”
“You’re right Izzy the goals are bullshit, but that’s not the point. Joining a frat is about making friends, life-long friends. The Negus’s back-to-Africa rap is just another part of the crap you take when you’re on line. It’s supposed to make you feel bad and ignorant for not knowing anything about Africa. But Africa ain’t my home. I’m from Georgia. What’s Africa got to do with my life or my family’s life, or for that matter the lives of the many generations before them since slavery began in this country? I joined BOSS not because I want to reconnect with my African roots, but because Gadfly was gonna join. He joined cause Dexter wanted to join. They’re good guys, Izzy, and I’m sorry they won’t be your brothers.”
“I’m sorry too, Mel, but whatever I strive for has to make sense and joining BOSS no longer did. But I really hope that you and I can remain friends. I think we have a lot in common even if we aren’t gonna be fraternity brothers.”
“OK Izzy, even though you are not BOSS, let’s go get something to eat.”
“Great, but one other thing. Where does the term, Honky come from?”
“I don’t know too much about it, but I do remember my grandfather telling me stories about the Wolof people in Senegal. He told me that we were Wolof, not that I gave a damn. Anyway, he said that Honky comes from the Wolof word, Honq, which means pink man. So Pink Man, are you ready to get some food?”
Over the next several weeks, I’m in a state of euphoria. I have finally made a friend at Howard, a black friend. I have felt so alienated from the school that I had given up on the prospect of developing any friendships at Howard. I was convinced that the achievement of zero friendships during the entire four years of my college sojourn would be its ultimate fruition. In fact, until I started hanging out with Mel X-Ray Gray, I hadn’t realized how lonely and demoralized I have been. He appears to feel the same way. We spend a great deal of time together throughout the spring of 1962. We both have developed a nascent love of jazz, and on the weekends we would go to the Bohemian Caverns or to Jazzland to hear some of the top talent that played there.
Our relationship is going swimmingly until one day I get the bright idea of convincing Mel to meet my parents. I’m so euphoric about my new Black friend that I tell myself that it makes perfect sense for him to get a bird’s eye view of my progenitors and my life on the white side. But as I pursue the matter, I begin to feel like a real estate agent representing both sides of a difficult sale. My father’s initial response is less than enthusiastic. He jumps out of his chair and bellows, “You want to bring one of your Schwartzeh friends into my house? Over my dead body! I thought you were going to college to improve your mind not to lose it.”
“Oh come on, Dad! Mel’s a great guy. I think you’d like him if you give him a chance.” My father bares his teeth and gives me a muffled growl. “Mom, do you think I’m crazy?” My mother nervously looks first at her husband and then at me. With a furrowed brow, she answers, “Of course not, dear. It’s just that I don’t want your father to get upset and say something that we’ll all regret.” Dad and I re-enter our perennial argument repeating a tactic prevalent in our previous debate over my attending Howard. He thrusts with his stereotype of the dirty worthless Negro, and I parry with my stereotype of the Black paragon of middle class virtues. After a few rounds of this, Mom’s had enough. She whispers to me, “Go invite your friend and I’ll talk to your father.” I can’t wait to tell Mel.
Suspecting that Mel might also resist my “let’s all love one another” plan, I decide to invite him in person rather than on the phone. But my first sighting of Mel is not until the following Wednesday when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice him sitting in one of the reading rooms in Founders Library. He is dressed more like he is on a date than burning for an upcoming exam. In fact, he looks preppy in his blue and beige plaid shirt and black slacks. “Who’s the lucky girl?” I ask as I sidle up noiselessly beside him. He is startled. He looks at my unexpected white face, recognizes me, frowns and then says, “Say what?”
“Who’s the lucky girl?” I repeat.
“The only date I have, Izzy, is with the books. I have a major history exam tomorrow.”
“Can I talk to you about something, Mel?”
“Will it take long? I really have to burn.”
“It’ll only take a minute.” We step out into the corridor just outside the reading room. “OK, Izzy, what is so important?”
“I want you to come to brunch Sunday so you can meet my parents.”
“Are you nuts? You want me to meet your parents after everything you’ve told me about your father’s social attitudes? You might as well invite me to a Klan meeting.”
“He’s not that bad, Mel. Besides he’ll be on his best behavior. Who knows? Maybe once he’s introduced to your sparkling virtues his social attitudes may change.”
“Yeah, and maybe then I’ll be able to rent an apartment next door to yours.”
“Ooh, that’s a low blow.”
“But it’s true nonetheless that those two events share the same low probability.”
“Look Mel, it’s just one brunch.”
“Let me think about it, Izzy. I’ll let you know tomorrow. “ The next day Mel calls me and says he’ll come. I figure his curiosity trumped his fear. Whatever the reason, I’m ecstatic that he is willing to meet me on my home turf.
That night I had a dream that Mel had come to brunch as planned and my father was at his worst. Dad began with what I know he thought was a compliment. He “congratulated” Mel on appearing to be one o
f a rare species-a good nigger. Dad continued with a longish monologue that fully fleshed out his social attitudes with respect to Negroes. He told Mel that the best thing for niggers would be for all of them to return to Africa. But if they chose to stay in the good old US of A, they should work much harder at learning the superior habits of white people. First they need to learn how to speak English better. Then they need to learn a good trade, improve their work ethic, and sense of responsibility. Mel was so horrified that he lost the power of speech. The last image of the dream that I remember is the look of horror on Mel’s face. I wake up in a cold sweat. I have to talk to Mel. I have to prepare him in case Dad acts anything like I saw in my dream.
“What’s happenin’, Izzy? Is the brunch off?”
“No, no, Mel. The brunch is still on. I just wanted to prepare you just in case my father does say the wrong thing. Now you won’t have any problems with my mother and I’m 95% sure Dad will be pleasant. But it’s that 5% that’s bothering me. So if in the unlikely case that he says something offensive try not to take it personally.”
“How should I take it, Izzy?”
“My dad has an 8th grade education so just try and brush it off to his lack of schooling ok?”