Izzy White?

by Barry Wolfe

  A further complication is that I can see that whatever postgraduate plans Desirie might have had, they are being supplanted by her new quest of becoming a full-time civil rights activist. And I sense she wants me by her side in this quest. But the more I think about joining her, the more I feel that something is not quite right. It’s like a new suit that binds and itches and must be removed after a short period of time. But I look sharp in this suit and Desirie couldn’t be happier. She squeals with joy when I tell her that I will join her in the student protest.

  It’s a perfect day for a protest. In fact this entire week has been a golden gift of warmth and light, and everyone in the Yard is in a good mood. Desirie finds me at the Sun Dial, which is fast becoming “our spot” on campus. She looks sharp in tight jeans and white shirt. In my eyes, the flowing curves of her body stand in sharp contrast to the basic angularity of the Upper Quadrangle. My brain, heart and private parts snap to attention at such a ravishing sight. She greets me with a wide grin and a passionate kiss on the mouth. Her joy eliminates all concern that she ordinarily would have about such a public display of interracial affection. My self-consciousness melts in the heat of this intimate contact. After we return to the reality of the emerging crowd of student protesters, I see Mel walking toward us. He is wearing the same blue and white Howard sweatshirt that I am. He is scowling at me, and I believe he has seen us kissing. “Hi Mel. What’s happenin’?” My nervousness sends my greeting over the top in both loudness and enthusiasm. He responds with a barely audible “I’m cool man.” To Desirie, however, he is much warmer. “What’s happening Cuz?” He says with laughter in his voice. Desirie picks up immediately on the muted tension between Mel and me. In an effort to forge a truce, she says, “I’m so happy to be here today with my two favorite men.” This makes Mel even more morose. He cuts his eyes at me and seems genuinely shocked that I have shown up for the protest. “Why are you here, Izzy?” Mel says this with a coldness that deeply pains me. I reply with hostility in my voice. “The same as you, Mel, to protest injustice.”

  “This ain’t your fight, Izzy.” In my most pompous voice, I reply, “I beg to differ.”

  Desirie has had enough. “OK, guys, let’s move over closer to the stage. I want to hear the speaker.” By this time a sizeable crowd has gathered around the makeshift stage that has been built near the new Fine Arts Building. A few students are holding up signs. “Desegregate the Construction Unions,” reads one sign. Another reads “For shame, Lily White Unions are Building Howard’s New Gym”. A third reads “Down with Gym Crow”. These signs will appear in a picket line in front of the Administration Building on 6th Street that is scheduled after the speaker’s remarks.

  As we approach the stage, we run into some of Mel’s BOSS fraternity brothers, a few of Desirie’s friends from Delta Sigma Theta, and a couple of the guys we played against in intramural basketball. The general atmosphere of bonhomie dissolves the tension between Mel and me. Someone in the crowd begins to sing and the crowd soon joins him with proud voices and rhythmic clapping.

  “Old Gym Crow is dying

  Freedom’ll soon be flying.

  Old Gym Crow’s a sinner

  Freedom gonna be the winner.

  When Old Gym Crow is gone

  Freedom will have won.”

  With each repetition of the chant, the mood of the burgeoning crowd grows increasingly festive. The collective sound of the swaying group surges louder and higher. We no longer can hear ourselves speak even in close quarters so we join the chant. We punctuate each syllable with a raised fist. It seems more like a rock concert than a student protest. Brandon Blackwell appears on the stage. His dark skin sparkles in the warming sunlight. His dazzling smile, alabaster against an ebony background, and clearly visible from any point in the yard, also warms us. He has both arms out with palms facing the ground. He lowers his hands by small increments, indicating by this eloquent sign language that he wants the crowd to become silent. Just as incrementally we reduce our noise to a muffle and then to silence. He picks up a bullhorn and begins to announce the featured speaker of the day. “Fellow students, it gives me great pleasure to introduce our former classmate and one of the stalwarts of the on-going civil rights revolution, Antoine Hart.” In unison, the crowd goes “AHHHHH” as an onomatopoetic tribute to the initials of one of Howard’s most popular civil rights activists. We all know that Brandon and AH spent time together in a Nashville jail for picketing a segregated movie theatre. The two of them had famously jawboned a drunk white guard armed with a shotgun into an anxiety attack.

  Antoine Hart is not a big man. He is well under six-feet tall. He is caramel-colored, dressed in a tan sport jacket, dark brown slacks, a skinny tan and rust-colored tie swinging loosely on a white shirt. Last year he had spent time in a Louisiana jail on a bogus charge of criminal anarchy just for trying to meet with students at a local Baton Rouge Negro college. He had received calls from Brandon and other NAG members telling him that there is an important protest taking place right on his old campus. When Antoine heard about the absurdity of Howard University officials agreeing to allow segregated unions to participate in the building of the new men’s gym, he did not hesitate. He readily agreed to speak at that protest. Antoine takes the bullhorn from Brandon, looks at it as if he is studying the teeth of a prized horse, and then turns to the crowd and bellows out in a strong and clearly audible baritone voice, “I don’t need this thing.” He hands the bullhorn back to Brandon who laughs and gives Antoine a high five. We let out with a roar of approval. Antoine surveys the crowd for a long minute and then begins, “Hello New Negroes.” Our cheering grows louder and then shifts to a breathy response to Antoine Hart’s salutation, “Hello AHHHH”. Antoine laughs. “I call you New Negroes because we’re through shucking and jiving.” We respond with more thunderous cheering.

  “You know, last year I spent more than 60 rotten days in a Louisiana jail for what they called ‘criminal anarchy’, can you believe that?” We all give out a deafening boo. “Just because I wanted to do exactly what I’m doing here, talk to students. SNCC wants to mobilize students--black and white--from all over the country to join in the broader civil rights movement. While most of the action thus far has taken place in the South, the denial of Negro rights and our human dignity is a national problem. We need volunteers all across the country for this struggle, a struggle that we will win because of our passion, our focus, and our nonviolent tactics.” Our cheering begins again. Someone in the crowd cries out, “Preach it, AH!” Someone else says, “Amen to that.” The cheering seems to animate Antoine even more and his body roams about the makeshift stage. He punctuates his words with an upward punch of his fist. His voice takes on the tone of a preacher. Another person in the crowd bellows “Take us to church, AH!”

  “Now since I left Howard and since I became a field secretary for SNCC, my focus has been on the travails of the Negro in the South, particularly in Louisiana and Mississippi. But when I got the call from Brandon and he informed me of the mind-boggling mess that’s going on right here at my old campus, I had to come and speak. Now I ask you, what could have possessed Howard’s administration to tolerate segregated unions in the construction of the University’s new men’s gymnasium?”

  “They crazy as bedbugs,” someone in the crowd loudly opines.

  “Jive turkeys!” Yells another. Still another barks out, “A bunch of Uncle Toms. Tha’s what they be.” Antoine knows he has us now. “And it’s a damn shame!”

  “What’s a shame, AHHHH?” We ask in unison.

  “When highly educated Negro officials kow-tow to their white masters. Ain’t this a shame?”

  “Right on, AHHHH. It’s a damn shame.”

  “When the President of this University allows a new University building to be built by segregated unions. Ain’t this a shame?”

  We roar in response. “It’s a shame.”

  “Now I do have some sympathy for the powers that be at Howard, because so much o
f the University budget is determined by a congressional committee that is made up of a bunch of Southern redneck racists. So you see, in large part, the University is one collective sharecropper whose souls and livelihood are owned by a new group of southern white masters. And you know that’s a DAMN shame!” We let out with an unrestrained joyful cheer. “The white racist has always had his way of holding down the Black man. The whips of slavery gave way to the paucity of the sharecropper’s wages. The sharecropper’s financial misery was increased many times over by Jim Crow Laws that eviscerated so much of the Black man’s soul. And the poisonous cloud of white apartheid continues to snuff out the life possibilities of little black children all over this country. But no more.”

  “Tell it like it is, AH,” someone in the crowd yells out. “Not this time! And not in our house!” We let out with a prolonged, deafening shout of praise for this truth teller. As our collective shout continues, we jump up and down, thrusting our fists in the air repeating the preacher’s last phrase, “NOT IN OUR HOUSE! NOT IN OUR HOUSE!” AH implores us to quiet down so he may continue. “We will not allow segregated unions to build on our campus!” AH points to us and we instinctively know to respond with, “NOT IN OUR HOUSE!”

  “Gym Crow laws no longer apply!”

  “NOT IN OUR HOUSE!”

  “We will no longer be second class citizens!”

  “NOT IN OUR HOUSE!”

  “Nor will we allow ourselves to be mistreated or disrespected!”

  “NOT IN OUR HOUSE!”

  “The Anglo-Saxons have had their day. They’ll not rule us for much longer!”

  “NOT IN OUR HOUSE!” Desirie and Mel glance at me with a big grin on their faces.

  “Don’t look at me,” I say. “I’m Jewish-American.” The two of them double over in laughter. The call and response goes on for the next 10 minutes. When we reach a fevered pitch, AH concludes with “Now let’s go tell the Howard University administrators! And what are we going to tell them?”

  “NOT IN OUR HOUSE!” We march over to the Administration building chanting over and over, “NOT IN OUR HOUSE!”

  A crowd of about 100 students spontaneously form a single file line and march toward the Administration Building, shouting all the while, “NOT IN OUR HOUSE.” Windows begin to open in every classroom in Douglass Hall, and a few moments later students pour out of Howard’s main classroom building and join the marchers. In fact, there are so many students that the sidewalk cannot hold them all. Students pour into 6th Street effectively blocking all traffic that tries to navigate the road separating Douglass Hall from the Administration Building. Car horns accompany the chant. Two Metropolitan Police cars attempt to make their way toward the Administration Building, but are blocked by cars in front of them. Two cops get out of their cars and start walking toward the students. One is white, the other Black. Someone in the crowd yells out, “At least the Pig Force is integrated!” The crowd roars with laughter. With difficulty the two policemen reach the front of the Administration Building. The two of them stand on the top of three steps that front the entrance. The white cop looks as if he just swallowed a lemon. The Black cop begins to speak through a bullhorn. “Now I know you all’re upset, and I don’t deny that you have a reason to be upset, but this crowd is gonna have to disperse. You’re creating a public hazard.” A crescendo of boos rains down on his head. Antoine Hart stands just below the policeman with his own bullhorn. He yells out, “We ain’t leaving until we hear from President Nabrit that some action will be taken to rectify this unconscionable discrimination.”

  “You tell ‘em, AH,” someone yells out. Thus commences the battle of the bullhorns. The Black policeman ups the anti. “If you do not disperse, we will have to apply whatever force is necessary until you comply.” More boos. “We’re not moving until we hear from the President,” replies AH. Great cheers break out whenever AH returns his defiant reply. As the bullhorns battle, the white policeman calls for backups. After several more bullhorn exchanges, we can see a large contingent of the Metropolitan Police Department moving toward us. AH bellows out, “Hold your ground!” The brave men in blue are prepared for a riot, and AH tries to psych up the crowd to become a human barricade. The police move slowly towards us with raised Billie clubs glinting in the sunlight, and their riot shields covering virtually their entire bodies. Just before the flash point is reached, President Nabrit appears on the steps of the Administration Building. He takes the bullhorn from the Black policeman. He’s grinning from ear to ear. “I have great news,” he begins. “I have just received a copy of a letter Labor Secretary Wirtz has sent to the Administrator of the General Services Administration. The letter states that contractors and unions involved in the building of Howard’s new gymnasium are required to comply with the non-discrimination clause in the construction contract.” We erupt with cheers. When the cheers die down, Nabrit continues, “If they refuse to comply within 10 days, Secretary Wirtz will ask the Justice Department to enforce compliance.” Our cheers grow louder. “Secretary Wirtz’s letter continues to say that he is now convinced that persuasion alone will not produce the action required.” Our cheers are now deafening. “Victory in our house,” AH yells through the bullhorn. And that becomes our new chant. “Victory in our house!” We spontaneously begin to disperse as the two policemen with their faces frozen in an expression of astonishment watch us unclog the street.

  Once back in the Yard, Desirie excitedly says to me, “You see, Izzy, direct action works. The students can be powerful if we remain organized, unified, and we continue to challenge the power structure. Jim Crow will fold like a house of cards if we are persistent. I’ve decided that’s what I want to do, and Izzy, I want you to join me. Let’s put our plans to go to graduate school on hold and be civil rights activists for the next couple of years.” My body fills up with the heebie-jeebies. “Whoa, Desirie. That’s asking a lot.”

  “I know it is, Izzy, but think about it. It could be the most important decision you’ll make in your life.” I know she’s right. This would be the most important decision in my life so far and a “no” is just as terrifying as a “yes”.

  With an unmovable frown on his face, Mel has been witnessing this conversation. “Desirie,” he says, “Why don’t you stop hounding him. Can’t you see that he doesn’t want to do it. He can’t think past himself and his goals. Justice for Negroes is okay as a part time hobby, but it’s nothing that he willing to commit his life to.” With faux empathy, he continues. “And I can understand his not wanting to not give up on his goals. After all, the Jews have gotten their freedom.” I blush a deep red. That comment cuts me deeply. Desirie sees the rising tension between us and jumps in. “Cut it out, Mel. That was uncalled for.”

  “Seriously, Desirie, have you ever thought about why Izzy wants to be with you? Do you think he really loves you? It’s all about him, to prove to himself and the world that he’s a great liberal.”

  “How do you know this, Mel?” Desirie replies with tears in her eyes. “How do you really know what’s inside him?”

  “I know white people. I’ll grant you Izzy’s heart is better than most, but he can’t possibly see you beyond your black skin. You’re not a full flesh and blood human being to white people. You represent some image they possess of Black women. Mostly it’s about sexual conquest and sexual fulfillment. You’re the black whore who’s gonna satisfy every lustful fantasy that their fetid imagination has concocted. And that their frigid white women will never be able to satisfy! Desirie starts to cry. She looks at me imploringly and asks, “Is it true, Izzy? Is that how you think of me?” “Of course not, Desirie! In fact, I’m very much in love with you.” She manages a smile through translucent tears. “Maybe in the beginning----“

  “AH HA!” Mel pounces.

  “Let me finish, Mel. Maybe in the beginning I thought: Wouldn’t it be amazing if a Negro girl were attracted to me, not because of my ego, but because of my hope that this would be proof that Negroes and whites could
love each other. And to be perfectly honest, I hoped that my feelings for Desirie would cure me of my Negrophobia. And by the way it has!”

  “Well good for you, Izzy. I’m so happy for you.” My body is seized with shame as I try and absorb Mel’s sarcasm. Mel continues to slay me with a thousand cuts. He slashes at my idealism by claiming to have unearthed its selfish origins; he demeans my Jewish identity by somehow equating me with Jewish liquor storeowners who exploit the alcoholic vulnerabilities of their ghetto customers. Worst of all he continues to claim that my feelings for Desirie are not real and that he will do everything in his power to keep me from hurting her. Desirie can no longer stand our arguing over her, and she dashes away toward Founders Library. Her sobbing is audible almost to the steps of the library. Mel and I disconsolately look at her until she disappears within the confines of the library. When we can no longer see her, we turn toward each other and just glare. A painfully long minute passes without either one of us saying a word. Then we turn and go our separate ways.

  Chapter

  25.

  The End of the Beginning

  I watch in uncomprehending horror. The May 3rd evening news begins with a report from Birmingham, Alabama, where dozens of Black teenagers are marching toward a set of barricades erected by the Birmingham police. These teenagers walk in the direction of a set of powerful fire hoses aimed at them. At “Bull” Connor’s order, the hoses are turned on and their power is difficult to fully grasp. One little girl, apparently around 8 years old, is literally rolled back down the street from which she had begun her march. A group of teenagers are pinned against the wall unable to avoid the hoses’ violent spray. Despite their awful force, the hoses fail to quash the protest. In fact, this shameful display of official power arouses the crowd even more. Bricks and broken bottles are hurled at the police who now move toward the crowd of teenage demonstrators with a pack of leaping, yapping, growling German shepherds barely contained on their leashes. The ear-piercing screams of the crowd of dark-skinned victims are unbearable. I along with the entire nation, I imagine, get to see a German shepherd with its teeth sunk into the side of a teenage boy, biting, tearing, and turning its head from side to side in an effort to remove a hunk of flesh from its victim. I am nauseated by the sight of government-sanctioned fangs and fire hoses unleashed upon a group of young people who are marching to obtain the same rights that every white person enjoys in our so-called Land of the Free. I am perplexed, increasingly demoralized, and profoundly befuddled. How can this happen in America, the alleged leader and model of free nations? But the question is quickly answered when I remind myself of all that I have learned in the past four years at Howard about race relations in America and its odious provenance. I am watching the dead Confederacy come to life again to fight once more to preserve the hateful bulwark of its society—the oppression of dark-skinned people. Yes, in my mind, I know how and why this is happening, but to see with my own eyes this revolting display of official hatred of one group of American citizens for another makes me cringe with disgust---Disgust with Alabama, with the South, with white people, with my feelings of powerlessness, and ultimately with myself. For a moment I think maybe I am making a mistake by not joining Desirie in the civil rights struggle. Could there be any more important work right now? It seems obvious that I should join the woman I love in this worthy fight. Yet something holds me back. Is it fear for my life? And what if I do die? There would be much posthumous praise heaped upon the head of this heroic martyr who sacrificed his life for such an honorable cause. Of course it would be praise I would never hear. And the way racist southerners have been treating white protestors, my period of heroic struggle could be awfully short. I realize that I want a longer lifespan in which to make whatever contribution I am going to make in this life. The truth of the matter has already been proven—I would make a lousy civil rights protestor. I am incapable of learning the discipline of nonviolence; and when push literally comes to shove, I would feel compelled, not unlike the German shepherds, to sink my teeth into the hides of haters-- only in self-defense of course. I urgently want to connect with Mel and Desirie. I am worried that the Birmingham Massacre has destroyed my relationships with the two of them.