by Barry Wolfe
“Let’s just say our friendship would be easier if you were a BOSS member.”
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind that now. Will you come?” I’m a sucker for anyone pleading for my attention. “Alright, I’ll come, but just to this dance. I’m not committing to the fraternity. I don’t think I can.”
Mel brightens. ‘That’s great, Izzy. The dance is this Saturday night, and it starts at 8 pm. See you then.” After we hang up, I’m already regretting having said yes. I’m not exactly sure where Mel is coming from. He really seems to want to be friends, which gratifies me. He seems to be as excited about making a friend with a white boy as I am in having a black friend. But he left me with a mystery. I still do not understand why our friendship would be easier if I’m his fraternity brother. I don’t see the connection. But go to the dance I will.
Lightening and thunderstorms accompany my ride down to the BOSS House. I take this as an inauspicious omen, but I keep trying to excommunicate this superstitious reasoning from my mind. These are the kinds of connections and conclusions that logic and scientific reasoning should banish from an intelligent and critically thinking mind. I find a parking spot that is almost a block away from the BOSS house. Despite the umbrella I have brought with me, the wind and the rain leave me wet and somewhat rumpled by the time I reach the door. I rap the Lion’s head knocker with great force fearing that I will not be heard over the blaring music coming from within. Colby Betterman is wearing the same pair of horn-rimmed glasses as before. He smiles broadly and says, “Hey, Izzy, I’m glad you made it. Everybody’s in the basement.” I have never seen the basement before and I am amazed by its cavernous size. It easily accommodates the approximately 30 people within. The room is decorated with orange and grey festoons strung across the entire room. African masks are found on every available shelf. A BOSS member who looks familiar to me, but whose name I have forgotten, has set himself in one corner of the room as the self-appointed DJ. He is almost completely hidden by two stacks of 45-rpm records. As I survey the room, I hear Ike and Tina Turner’s "It’s Gonna Work Out Fine.” Eight couples are undulating in time with the music. With silky rhythmic movements they all appear to be mimicking the sex act. One couple in particular catches my attention. The male partner is wearing a chartreuse suit, which on him looks exceedingly cool. I feel a pang of shame at the memory of laughing at some Black men who I have seen in the past in outfits of such shiny bright solid colors that they were blinding. But it’s his movements that are familiar. X-Ray dances like the way he moves on the basketball court. I’m in awe of his wonderful dance moves: Smooth, swaying undulations, sudden explosive turns timed perfectly with his partner’s moves. It seems as if they have danced together daily for years. The young woman has her back to me. Her movements in a tight basic black dress, which hug her curves tightly, are erotic and familiar. When the music stops. Mel X-Ray Gray comes rushing toward me with his dance partner. I’m paralyzed with shock. It’s Desirie. She too is in shock and appears very nervous. Mel looks at Desirie then back at me and says with a big smile, “Izzy, I’d like you to meet my favorite cousin, Desirie Jackson.” At the word cousin, I almost pee in my pants. I can’t say a word. Desirie says it for us, “Ray, we know each other.”
“You do?” Mel asks flabbergasted. “How do you know….Aw wait a minute. Ree, Izzy’s the white boy you told me you met and that you liked but couldn’t put up with his quirks?”
“That’s right,” she says blushing.
“What quirks?” I ask, reddening with embarrassment.
“We don’t need to get into that now,” Desirie answers in a snooty tone that really annoys me. I strike back. “As far as quirks are concerned, I defer to your superiority in that regard.” We’re now glaring at one another. Mel smirks at both of us. “I see that the two of you have a lot to talk about, so I will make a graceful exit.” In a comedic crouch he slowly backs away from us as if he’s making a deferential departure from a king and his queen.
Desirie is still angry with me when I say, “Let’s dance.”
“What?” She bellows in utter disbelief. I’m not to be deterred.
“Let’s dance. Maybe we can communicate better on the dance floor.” I grab her hand and gently, but firmly, guide her to a free area just as "Pretty Girls" by Eugene Church begins to play. I start with the Pony and quickly switch to the Slop and the Snap. She watches me for a moment and then decides to join me. Within seconds, we are dancing in perfect harmony. Her scowl turns into a smile; our discord dissolves into pure joy. A crowd gathers around us. First there is shock in seeing a white boy move the way I dance. But the people watching us are even more amazed to see an interracial couple dance so well together, so in tune with each other’s moves. We then Cha-Cha to Chuck Jackson’s "Any Day Now", switch back to the snap for "Shop Around" by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. When Maxine Brown begins singing "All in my Mind", I hold out my arms for her to join me in a slow dance. She hesitates for a moment and then accedes to my request. She holds me at arm’s length. By the time the record changes to Etta James singing At Last, we are cheek to cheek. A subtle lilac fragrance emanates from her and it makes me a little dizzy. I have never felt so happy. I gently kiss her cheek. Desirie is taken aback. “What are you doing, Izzy?”
“I’m trying to communicate with you. We don’t do so well with words, so I thought I’d try with actions.”
“And what exactly are you trying to communicate?”
“That I’ve missed you so much, and that I think I love you.”
“Oh Izzy, what are you saying?” Desirie has such a forlorn look on her face that it makes me doubt that she could possibly feel the same way.
“Desirie, I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to be with you day and night.”
She surprises me. “Izzy, I want that too, but you know it’s impossible. The world is just not ready for this.”
“The world? Fuck the world. We’ll make our own world.”
“And if we ever have kids, Do you want to go through the pain of watching our children being scorned or even physically beaten because of how they look or because of a decision that they did not make?”
“You fear the world too much.”
“With good reason. Look what happened to me on the Freedom Ride.”
“But we can avoid the crazy bigots. We’ll find a safe place and make a home together.”
“Make a life together? Izzy, we hardly know each other.”
“But that’s exactly how I want to spend my life-getting to know you.” I can hear desperation in my voice as I plead with Desirie to share my dream. In my mind, our union will be the triumph of love over bigotry. What could be more satisfying than for us to be together and at the same time to vanquish racism, our mutually hated foe? Tears begin to well up in her eyes. She believes that I don’t take seriously enough the power and cruelty of our adversary. In her eyes, I am naïve about the world and about marriage. The more I plead, the more fearful she becomes. I finally allow myself to see the fear in her eyes and I just stop the pleading. “Let’s dance,” I say cheerfully, and she issues a heavy sigh of relief. The DJ put on "It’s Twelve O’Clock", written and sung by our classmate, Van McCoy. The song grew out of a serenade that Van and his group The Starlighters gave students on the Howard campus. The chimes of the Founders Library clock tower that ring at midnight inspired the melody. I hold Desirie very close as if I will lose her forever after this night. Forgetting everything and everyone around me, I kiss her right there on the dance floor in front of all the would-be fraternity brothers that I have previously rejected. First she holds back, but then engages me in a long and deeply fulfilling kiss. Our tongues connect in a way that they never could through mere conversation. That kiss melts the last vestige of my Negrophobia. I’m kissing the woman I love. Until now, I believed that such happiness was unattainable. Now I know that together we can vanquish any foe, master any challenge, and endure any hardship. Unfortunately, I can see
in Desirie’s face that she remains unconvinced.
“OK, Desirie, let’s not worry about the future. Let’s focus on now. I want to see you as much as I can during the summer. What are your plans?”
“I won’t be here this summer, Izzy. I have to make some money to pay for my senior year so I got a job in Oak Bluffs.” I feel like my hair is on fire from jealousy.
“Are you going to see Carter Wyatt?” I ask as innocently as I can. Desirie frowns.
“Oh Izzy, you disappoint me. Carter broke my heart once. Do you think I’m going to give him another chance to break it again?” The electricity of shame seizes my entire body. “I’m sorry, Desirie. My feelings for you are turning me into a jealous fool.” Desirie smiles and says, “I’ll miss you too, but we’ll be together again in the fall. Until then, let’s write each other as much as possible, OK?”
“Sure, Desirie, let’s write.” I try to cover up how abandoned I feel.
“Well, I have to go now,” Desirie announces quickly and gives me a quick kiss on the mouth.
As high as I felt when we kissed, I now feel as low as I have ever felt. I’m already dreading a summer’s length of loneliness.
Chapter
21.
That’s Heaven to Me
I am fortunate enough to acquire a summer job at the National Institute of Neurological Diseases and Blindness. I actually had never heard of NINDB until a friend alerted me to the opportunity for a job at one of the Institutes of the NIH. This is truly an odd job, but the money is good. It finally dawns on me that despite my continuing scholarship at Howard, I need to save money for graduate school. I’ve decided that I want to get a Ph.D. in psychology and help people with my brilliance and my compassion. Whereas in the past I had been afraid of tackling psychology because I had assumed that I needed to have the intelligence of a Sigmund Freud, I now fancy myself as Freud’s second coming. After all, we are the same height, 5’ 7”. Okay, I’m actually a half-inch shorter, but how significant is that in the scheme of things. My desire to revise, update, and “clean up” the entirety of Freud’s psychoanalytic theories seems entirely feasible to me. In addition, I aspire to be the best psychotherapist in the world. Why think small? That’s what getting all “As” in two consecutive semesters will do to you.
The part of the NINDB where I work is not located on the main campus of the NIH. It is situated in a low-to-the-ground building in Silver Spring, Maryland, which resembles nothing so much as an enlarged pillbox. My position is a research assistant on a 13-year Birth Defects Study. This study is exploring any and all factors that might lead to birth defects in newborns. On our first day, Dr. Cellborn delightfully entertains us with an extended lecture on the reproductive process. Our beautiful lecturer is very tall and bespectacled. When she opens her mouth, she is surprisingly soft-spoken, given that her demeanor, clothes, glasses and hairstyle all give the impression of a demanding high school math teacher. In her lecture everything is covered from embryogenesis to the last stage of delivery. Who knew that dropping a baby is so complicated? There I meet my two fellow research assistants with whom I’ll be spending most of my workday. They are both students at Wheaton College, a Christian-oriented college with a clear evangelical mission located in Wheaton, Illinois. Clayton Fogmeister is 6 feet tall, blond and wiry. His face possesses a constant wry smile. He wears steel-rimmed glasses and is bright and religious, but not a fanatic. Elwood Plethysma is the same height as Clayton, but he has a dark flattop, wears black-rimmed glasses, and his expression is inexorably stony serious. He is an evangelical Christian par excellence who is fervently committed to Wheaton’s evangelical goals. Everyone he meets he wants to bring to Jesus. When Dr. Cellborn talks about how certain forms of birth control do not affect the fertilized egg, but rather prevent the egg from implanting to the uterus, Elwood screeches out, “Baby Killers!” Everyone turns to look at Elwood. Unflustered by the horrified stares of the group Elwood continues with his impromptu sermon, “It’s God’s law to protect the unborn.” An uncomfortable silence overtakes this temple of science. A few minutes later Dr. Cellborn continues, “Thank you Mr. Plethysma for your contribution, but we have a lot of information we need to impart. So would you mind withholding your comments until after I finish the briefing.” Plethysma gives her a hard stare, but says nothing more. Fogmeister looks at me and rolls his eyes. We both try to keep our snickering as quiet as possible. My mind automatically harkens back to that ridiculous incident when I asked my mother how the process of reproduction can be prevented or terminated. I had humiliated myself the next day by blathering about “protection sold in bottles” to my junior high school chums when they in fact were discussing a protection racket run by one of the biggest and meanest kids in the school. Then it had been my turn to be snickered at. The memory makes me blush, and I immediately curtail my own derisive laughter.
Dr. Cellborn continues her briefing of the research assistant’s job. We are to spend the majority of our eight-hour day reading the labor and delivery records of birthing mothers. These records are supposed to list everything that happens in the operating room during the birthing process, including the administration of anesthesia. Our job is to record the types and amounts of anesthesia that were administered. Over a dozen hospitals participated in this study, hospitals from Boston to Birmingham. After one day of doing this work, the conclusion among the research assistants is unanimous: BORING!! What a snooze fest. I think the salary is so good because one has to possess a special ability to remain awake while reading these tedious, poorly written documents. The only interesting part of this work is the stories of the often pre-teenage girls giving birth. Some of the mid-teens are delivering their third or fourth baby. The biographical sections give you a brief peek into the often-horrendous lives of the study patients. Many are giving birth to the offspring of raping relatives. These stories are so heart-wrenching that my emotions shuttle back and forth during the day between the aforementioned boredom and a despairing form of sadness.
Clay, Elwood, and I eat our brown-bag lunches together every day. Often, this is the most interesting hour of the day, because we get into melodramatic discussions about everything from current events to ancient philosophical questions regarding the meaning of life. In fact, we have transferred the obligatory college bull session to an NIH research lab. On a hot day in the middle of July when the air-conditioning is less than adequate, we make the mistake of beginning a discussion of religion. It begins innocently enough when Elwood asks me if I’m a believer. I see Clay shaking his head at Elwood and silently mouthing “no”.
“A believer in what?” I ask.
“In Jesus Christ, the Lord and Savior of the world,” Elwood replies with wide eyes and a voice that is loud and proud. His fervor makes me uneasy. I want to talk about religion about as much as I want to talk about cholera. In as tactful a voice as I can muster I say that I do not believe that Jesus is the Son of God. “Elwood, I’m Jewish.” Worry lines form on Clay’s brow, but not on Elwood’s. “Aha!” Elwood bellows. “You should read Paul’s letter to the Hebrews.”
“I don’t like reading other people’s private mail.” Elwood misses my joke and earnestly replies, “The letter is not private.”
“And if I read this letter, what will it do for me?” My skepticism is leaking out through all my pores. “It will convince you of the superiority of the New Covenant to the Old Covenant, and it will introduce you to the person of Jesus who is three in one-God, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
“It will, huh?”
“Yes, Jesus Christ is conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, and is true God and true man.” I look at Elwood as if he has just arrived from some alien planet and somehow has learned enough English to share his strange extraterrestrial beliefs. I attempt a gentle rebuttal. “Elwood, I don’t want to show disrespect for your religious beliefs, but there is only one way in which the so-called New Covenant is superior to the Old Covenant. It’s crazier! It’s beyond me how anyone can
believe in Jesus’ virgin birth, resurrection, and all the other bizarre claims of the New Testament. The Old Covenant is crazy enough with its numerous fairy tales. Burning bushes and parting seas indeed.” I end my rebuttal with a very satisfying harrumph. Elwood stares at me with eyes ablaze. “Unless you accept Jesus in your heart as your savior and redeemer, you’re going to Hell, my friend!” He finally replies, his voice unable to disguise its venom. “You’re the kind of person we’re after,” he continues. Clay interjects, “Not now, Elwood.”
“Yes, now. Help me, Clay, we have a soul to save. Izzy, we’re very concerned about your soul.” My fear transmogrifies into sarcasm.
“Yeah, you and Torquemada.” Clay laughs, but my reference to the Grand Inquisitor apparently goes over Elwood’s head. “Izzy, you have no idea the peril your soul is in. You don’t want to risk eternal damnation.” Elwood seems genuinely frightened for my wellbeing. Sarcasm devolves into anger. “Elwood, leave my soul alone. If you want to believe that nonsense, that’s fine with me. Let me be with my non-belief. You don’t see me evangelizing you to atheism, do you?”
“But Izzy, you’re wrong and the price of your error is unbearable to me as it should be to you.” It’s all I can do to contain my parboiling rage. To contain it, I assume a haughty intellectual posture. “Here’s the problem, Elwood. You think I’m wrong, and I think you’re full of shit. But I’m quite willing to accept that you fervently believe in nonsense without hassling you about it. But you won’t leave me be with my ‘error’ as you call it even if I’m willing to risk eternal damnation.”