by Barry Wolfe
“But Izzy, it’s my responsibility as a loving Christian to bring you to Christ.” As the room begins to heat up from the failing air-conditioning, so does our rhetoric. Elwood’s resolve increases, as does his viciousness. “Izzy, the problem with you Jews is that you refuse to admit that one of your own could be the Messiah, something you people have wished for and dreamed of for centuries. Jesus comes along, and you kill him. No wonder you’re the most hated people on the planet.” This is such a hideous statement that my rage implodes. I burst out laughing and return to sarcasm. “Hey Elwood, where’s all the Christian love you evangelicals keep singing about? Any statement that begins with ‘You Jews’ and ends with ‘the most hated people on the planet’ doesn’t sound a lot like love to me.” Without missing a beat, Elwood replies, “We’re taught to love the misguided.”
“You know, Elwood, you’re the worst evangelical salesman I’ve ever met.” Clay, apparently thinking the same thing interrupts, “Izzy, what Elwood is trying to say__”
I cut him off. “I know what Elwood is trying to say. I’ve heard it hundreds of times before. ‘You’re right and I’m wrong.’ What you don’t understand is that evangelism by definition equals disrespect. What you’re saying is that because I’m a Jew, I don’t have any sense, any intelligence, any ability to discover the truth.” Clay beats Elwood to the punch before the latter can insult me anymore. “That’s not what he’s saying,”
“Well, that’s what I’m hearing.” Now Elwood and I are both moving rapidly toward apoplexy. We are glaring at each other. Clay tries to intervene but neither Elwood nor I pay any attention to him. A few minutes of this staring contest seems to cool both of us down. In a more congenial tone Elwood begins again. “Let me tell you something, Izzy.” His voice is now more triumphant than angry. “You may scoff at the evangelical movement now, but we have a plan.” I look at him dubiously and ask, “What pray tell is that?”
“Evangelical Christianity will soon take over the country.”
“What? What are you saying?” Elwood waves his hand through his flattop and says, “Yes, we will start with the elementary schools and convert as many children as possible. Then we’ll move to the high schools and eventually we will infiltrate the colleges and build more Christian colleges like Wheaton. For example, two years ago, Arizona Christian University opened in Phoenix. In Tulsa, Oklahoma, Oral Roberts University is due to open next year. With our base firmly established in the schools at all levels, we will elect more and more evangelical Christians to school boards, state legislatures and then the U.S. Congress. And one day soon the President of the United States will be a born-again Christian. The entire country will come to Christ and our country will be saved.” I look at Elwood in total disbelief. I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. I spontaneously give in to the former and burst into uncontrolled laughter. Clay looks very distressed while Elwood turns a shade of crimson that I don’t think I have even seen before on a human face. I look over at Clay and ask him if he agrees with Elwood. “Not at all, Izzy,” he replies. “What you have to understand is that Wheaton College has a very diverse student body. We tend to agree with the conservative theology of the place, but beyond that students hold a wide range of opinions and about politics and about how far to push the evangelical mission of the school. There are a few who agree with Elwood.”
“Many more than you realize, Clay,” Elwood aggressively adds. Clay ignores Elwood and continues, “I don’t quite agree with your view, Izzy, that evangelism equals disrespect. I have a right to share my views and try and influence yours, just as you have a right to try and convince me that atheism is closer to the truth. Ain’t that so?”
“Maybe. The problem is when it comes to religion, nobody knows for sure. All we have are beliefs. Just because you believe something doesn’t make it so, and yet we kill each other because our beliefs are different. So doesn’t it make sense to just agree that we should just respect that we hold different beliefs and let it be. From this perspective, evangelism is disrespect.” Now Clay is getting excited. “It’s not disrespect, Izzy, it’s democracy. Isn’t this what democracy is supposed to be about—ideas competing in the intellectual marketplace. If we succeed in convincing more people that our perspective contains more of the truth, then our ideas win the day.”
“Yes, and the soft underbelly of democracy is that extremely undemocratic ideas can be democratically approved. I tell you guys what I’ve learned at Howard University about the Jim Crow laws in the South and their impact on the lives of Negro individuals and their families has made me ashamed of our democracy. I still have difficulty accepting the reality that the ancestors of many of my classmates were slaves.” Clay stands up, looks out the window, and then turns to me and says, “But that just means that your ideas about equality have not yet won the day.”
“But that’s my point. In a country that professes to treat everyone equally, so many states by popular approval continue to discriminate against an entire group of Americans because of the color of their skin. That too is democracy in action.” Elwood who has been struggling to get a word in finally takes advantage of the pause in our dialogue. “Democracy might be the best form of human government, but it is still man-made and therefore laced with sin. Only a return to Christ will guarantee the freedom and liberty of all people.” I’m now ready to blow my top. “If that’s the case, how come 11 am on Sunday is the most segregated hour of the week? Blacks are not allowed to attend white churches even though preachers in both are heaping praises on the same Christian God. Forgive me, but the hypocrisy of Christianity practiced in the Unites States boggles the mind.” Our voices are raised to the point that it draws the attention of Dr. Cellborn. She rushes into our office visibly agitated. “Why aren’t you young men working? Lunchtime is over. Your blathering can be heard along the entire corridor. A little less chatter and a lot more productivity from the three of you, please!”
The hot days of June become even hotter in July. Each day at work Elwood tells me a new story in his effort to convert me. One day it’s Rabbi Saul’s implosive conversion to a follower of Jesus. The next day is a spiel about “What’s in it for the Jews to convert”. On still another, I receive a tedious genealogical lecture tracing Jesus’ connection to King David and therefore how important it is for Christians to show Jews the way. The week ended with an appeal for me to begin my alleged process of conversion by joining a congregation of Messianic Jews. This is the stepping-stone to becoming a full-fledged Christian. Each day I get angrier and Elwood more frustrated. I can’t wait for the weekend to come.
I am so disappointed that Desirie has not kept her promise. She barely writes me once a week. So I retaliate by writing her only every other week. Most of the intervening days I bounce from anger to guilt. Then finally I get so pissed off that I am causing myself such anguish that I don’t want to write her at all.
This weekend there is a monthly dance party at the Maryland National Guard Armory in Silver Spring. I round up the Miscreants—Peter, Bobby, and James—and the four of us set off for the Armory. I always have to laugh whenever we approach the Armory. Located near the intersection of Georgia and Wayne Avenues in downtown Silver Spring it looks like nothing so much as a medieval Gothic castle with its many turrets and segmentations. I feel like we’re about to lay siege to the headquarters of a wicked Norman king. The racket that we hear within as we walk up to the castle entrance suggests that the war has started without us. Honking saxes, wailing bluesy voices, and the staccato beats of a variety of drums. And every three minutes or less we hear the booming voice of an army commander. But in reality it is not an army commander. It’s Motor Mouth himself, the DJ du jour, subbing for Don Dillard, a radio disc jockey who against all odds introduced rock- and-roll to Washington area teenagers from WDON-AM his tiny radio station in Wheaton, Maryland.
We enter the cavernous hall of the Armory where several hundred teenagers are bopping away to At the Hop by Danny and the Juniors. At first I can’
t pick out anyone I know. It’s like watching a choreographed riot. The four of us saunter around the perimeter of the hall. After a few minutes, Peter yells out, “Hey look, there’s Sharon with that tool Larry B.” Peter doesn’t wait for a response from any of us. He begins to chortle and to point frantically into the middle of the hall. “There’s Turdface. Aw he can’t dance worth a shit.” None of us is exactly sure where Peter is pointing, but we all laugh in agreement. Bobby spots a former girlfriend and groans, “Oh God, there’s Carol with Steve Weinberg. I can’t believe that she dumped my ass for him.” “You best believe it,” I say with a grin on my face. James sings, “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.” James’ singing never fails to leave us with the silly giggles. The song ends and Motor Mouth begins his staccato rap about the great music that keeps coming. He assures us that “WE’RE GONNA ROCK N ROLL ALL NIGHT LONG. NOW HERE’S A SONG THAT MADE IT TO NO.1 LAST YEAR, ERNIE K. DOE AND MOTHER-IN-LAW.” A deep voice intones Mother-in-law and the choreographed riot begins anew. A hundred hormone-charged males begin dancing with a hundred nubile females. One girl stands out for me. She’s a copper-haired colleen with sparkling green eyes. She’s wearing white pedal pushers and a Kelly green shirt tied in a knot revealing her tantalizing midriff. She’s tiny, perky and full of energy. She bounces around the dance floor with a perennial smile plastered on her punim. She is beautiful, curvaceous and surprisingly well endowed for her size. I’m smitten. My friends disappear from my world and I begin moving in her direction, but hardly aware that I’m doing so. I must meet her, but my mind goes blank. I have no idea what to say to her. I am suddenly standing in front of her and her 6-foot tall dance partner. As I conjure up an image of Desirie’s disapproving face, I almost walk away. Instead I stand and stare. Speech is now a distant memory. “Uh…uh,” I eventually offer. “Yes?” She asks. Her smile grows even more incandescent. “Uh…,uh,” I repeat. Words have deserted me, but not song titles. I hear myself singing…loudly, “It’s obdacious!”
“What are you saying? What is obdacious?” She says trying to hold on to her smile.
“The way I love you,” I say rather than sing. I had doubted it could ever happen, but her smile evaporates. Motor Mouth croons out the name of the next song, I Only Have Eyes for You by The Flamingoes. The green-eyed colleen maneuvers her partner so that her back is facing me. I just stand there in the middle of the dance floor with a hundred couples around me slow dancing. All are tightly squeezed together. Some are nibbling on necks; others are grabbing buttocks; still others are getting acquainted with their partner’s tongue. I find myself staring at her shapely behind, and I shake myself out of my reverie. “Listen, I’m sorry,” I manage, “but I want to meet you and I don’t know how to approach you.” She moves her partner 180 degrees and is now facing me.
“Well, your singing stinks and is probably not your best pick-up approach. Look, wait until this song is over and then I’ll talk to you. Meet me at the entrance.”
After the song ends I see her walking towards me. Again, in my mind’s eye, I see now Desirie’s disappointed face. We didn’t say we couldn’t date during our summer apart. I miss her terribly, but I need to have some fun to deal with my loneliness. She sees me standing with my hands in my pockets and her smile brightens. She sticks out her hand and says, “Hi, I’m Maureen McKenna.” Her smile and her demeanor are so welcoming that my entire body relaxes. I easily respond, “And I’m Izzy White.”
“Nice to meet you, Izzy. Would you like to dance?” From the first rollicking beat of Bobby Darin’s Queen of the Hop I know I have found the ideal dance partner. She bounces when I bounce, rocks when I rock, and when I blacken my dance moves, she shows me complimentary moves of her own. She fits my dance style like the perennial glove. Next comes The Wanderer by Dion and the Belmonts. I start with the Pony, move into the Slop and finally start Snapping. Maureen follows me effortlessly until I get to the Snap which she does not know. While I Snap, she does the Frug. I Snap around her in a circle and she stands there shaking her hips. In quick succession she does the Frug, the Hitch Hike and the Swim. The hormonal males and their nubile partners stop their own dancing. They form a circle to watch us. Soon they are clapping to the beat of our dance moves. I feel as if I have entered another plane of existence. This is perfect happiness. I had believed that this feeling was the stuff of movie tales. But here it is, and I am awash in pure joy. There’s a beautiful girl shaking her hips and smiling at me. The crowd begins to add cheers to their clapping. I do not realize until that moment that at least half of the hormonal males and their nubile partners know me. They begin to shout my name, “Go Izzy Go” “Look at that crazy man go,” someone shouts. That spurs me on to work harder, to experiment with new moves. I grab Maureen and we return to the Jitterbug. We attempt more complex turns and shifts that I have ever tried before. Maureen does not miss a beat. Whatever I attempt she follows seamlessly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Three Miscreants looking on. James stares, Bobby smiles, and Peter looks astonished. He knows better than the others just how advanced my dancing has become. I can tell by his expression that he can’t believe some of my moves and that someone can actually follow me. When the music stops, Maureen flings herself into my arms and exclaims, “Oh Izzy, you’re wonderful!” She continues to hug me and seems reluctant to let me go. She finally breaks from the hug and just smiles at me. I bask in the warmth of her praise.
But much to my astonishment, Maureen says she’s in love with me. My comfortable way of seeing the world is undermined. My body quakes with a new feeling, a new way of thinking about myself. . Maureen interrupts my reverie. “Izzy! Izzy, are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” She pulls me onto the dance floor. “Come on, this is my favorite slow song.” As the Flamingoes begin to sing, Lovers Never Say Goodbye, Maureen glues her body to mine and starts nibbling on my neck. Though I find the sensation strange I’m hoping for my first hickey. She moves her mouth to my cheek and eventually her lips are plastered on mine. She kisses me and I go wobbly. Although she is only five feet tall, she has the strength to pull me upright. “Are you OK, Izzy?” She says as she holds a hand over her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle her laughter.
On our first date we go to a forgettable movie, then to the Silver Spring Hot Shoppes for Mighty Moes and a milkshake, and eventually to Valley Street, the local lovers’ lane. We make out for awhile, but spend more time talking about ourselves, what our lives have been like up to this point, and our hopes and dreams for the future. She tells me that, like her parents, she’s a devout Catholic and that she attends Mass regularly. I learn that her father is a Fourth Degree member of the Knights of Columbus and that her mother originally wanted to be a nun until she met Maureen’s father at one of the first ever USO dances. They were married six months later. Maureen is the oldest of six children. She also thought about becoming a nun, but knows that she doesn’t have the discipline for the rigors of the religious life. This family is seriously Catholic.
“Do you go to Mass every day?” I ask.
“No silly. Not every day, but every Sunday morning. We go as a family, me my five brothers and sisters and my parents. Do you go to church?”
“Church?” I reply horrified. “I don’t even go to synagogue.” Maureen looks puzzled.
“Izzy, why are you talking about synagogues? You’re not Jewish.”
“Oh yes I am!”
“OH IZZY!” Her voice turns whiney and her disappointment is obvious. Her hands fly up to her cheeks and she stares out the car window. She keeps saying over and over, “Oh Izzy. What are we going to do?”
“What? I just said I was Jewish, not that I have the plague.”
“You don’t understand. Because of your religion, I can never marry you.”
“Marry me? Maureen, we’ve just met.”
“But Izzy, I know you’re the one. I feel it in my whole body. You’re my soul mate.”
“Uh, Maureen, you don’t know anything about m
e except that I can dance.”
“But that’s how I know. We dance together like we’ve known each other all our lives. And since we dance so well together, we’ll do everything well together.”
“I’m having trouble following your logic here.”
“Izzy, my mother told me that you can tell how a man will be in the bedroom by the way he moves on the dance floor. We’re going to have a wonderful sex life and make lots of babies. But to do that we have to get married, and I can’t marry you because you’re not Catholic. There’s only one answer, Izzy.”
“I’m happy to learn that there’s an answer. What is it?”
“You have to convert to Catholicism.”
“I have to what? You want me to leave one crazy religion for an even crazier one?”
“Oh Izzy, you have to. Our happiness depends on your converting.” I feel the heebie-jeebies crawling up my spine. “Maureen, I think we should slow down and get to know one another. I mean I like you. I like you a lot, but we hardly know each other. Let’s just have fun and see what happens, ok?” She smiles weakly and says ok.