by Barry Wolfe
“You think you know me Mr. Redmayne, but you don’t know me. Where do you get off stereotyping me?” Claudine becomes agitated and intervenes. “Boys, boys, calm down. We’re all on the same side here. We’re marching for our rights. Isn’t that why we’re here? The Negus says, “I’m here to fight for the dignity of Afro-Americans. I think Black people need to unite and demand our rights, not beg for them. And this March is the first sign I’ve seen of the Black Masses beginning to do just that. Why are you here, Mr. White?” I am startled by the Negus’s question. I thought I was observing an argument between the Negus and Courtney. “I mean I ask you this because this is really not your fight, is it Izzy?” I didn’t realize how angry he has been with me for de-pledging BOSS until now. “I think it is. Negro rights are human rights.” The Negus purses his lips and says, “The notion of human rights seems pretty abstract to me, Izzy, but what we Black people are fighting for comes from the lived experience of our people, from the cultural degradation, blood, and lives of our ancestors. We have been raped physically and spiritually by the white man for over 300 years, and as a result, we have lost touch with the sources of our strength and of our manhood.”
“You sound just like Malcolm.” The Negus smiles and says, “Malcolm is not wrong in his analysis, only in his proposed solutions. And even those are not uniformly bad. His call for a Black State within the United States of course is nonsense.” Courtney then jumps in with “You challenged Izzy about why he’s here, how about you? Given your Black Nationalist views, why are you here?”
“Because demanding your rights is an act of manhood: and even though I believe prospects are slim that we will fully obtain them in this country that believes in democracy for the pale, it is necessary for us to make the attempt.” Courtney responds, “I understand what you are saying, but my view is that race is a social fiction and should not be given such a place of prominence in our thinking. We are all Americans and all are entitled to the same God-given rights.
Now mind you, this intellectual debate is taking place as we are marching toward the Lincoln Memorial with signs and banners brightly waving and the sound of music hovering over us all. It seems as if hundreds of thousands of Black and white people were taking a holiday promenade down a major avenue of one of the most elegant parts of the city. As the debate between the Negus and Courtney rages on I hear someone near me sounding out an unusual syncopated beat with his mouth. Drawn by the sound, I eventually find the acappella drummer, and I discover that it is Rick Bee Bop Frazier who I haven’t seen in a couple of years. “Hey Bee Bop, what’re you beating out?”
“It’s a Joe Morello’s drum solo from Brubeck’s Take Five album. Ya dig, man? Hey, Izzy, is that you? I’m so glad you’re at this March man. It’s so boss to see white brothers and sisters joining their Black brothers and sisters at a march for jobs and freedom.”
“Man, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen you, Bee Bop. What’ve you been up to?”
“I graduated, like you, my pale brother. I got a degree in Fine Arts. I’ve decided to make music my life. It’s the only language I speak well. Besides, do you know that in the arts there is not the same kind of racial hatred as in other professions? I routinely jam with brothers of all hues, and the only criterion for eligibility is that you have to be good at what you do. That’s a world I can live in.”
“So what’s next for you?”
“I got a part-time job in a music store, which allows me plenty of time to work on my drumming and play with several different jazz groups at various clubs in DC. And you Izzy?
“Grad school; University of Illinois.”
“That’s great, Iz. I always knew you were heavy.”
By now we are adjacent to the Reflecting Pool. Bee Bop addresses the group and says, “My feets need to chill, people. Let’s go stick our dogs in the Pool." Everyone loves this idea. A few moments later our entire group has their feet in the Reflecting Pool along with several hundred other marchers. From here we are able to see the speakers’ stand at the Lincoln Memorial. Because of the loudspeakers set up at the Ellipse, we can hear Peter, Paul, and Mary singing Blowing in the Wind. In the middle of the song, its author, Bob Dylan, joins the three troubadours.
As tears pool in my eyes I see the same thing happening to everyone in our group. Even the Negus’s cheek is tear-stained, and his habitually icy demeanor thaws in the warming profundity of Dylan’s words. Despite our differences our shared tears tell the same story. We all lament the brutal treatment accorded dark-skinned people in our country, and we all share the same idealistic goal-that all people should treat our fellow Americans with respect. We must acknowledge that every American has the same rights. It may not be cool to say it, but that is what this march is about. We see each other’s tears and know we are forever united by this goal.
With the addition of the BOSS brothers we have become a largish group. We all get out our brown bags and have our lunch. Our conversation turns to speculation about the prospects of an improved football season for the woeful Washington Redskins. Claudine groans, “Oh brother!” And pulls out a book. Hope springs eternal because several of us thought the Redskins were going to improve over their five win season the year before. Their record of 5-7-2 was a significant improvement over the 1961 season in which they won only one game while accumulating 12 losses and one tie. Some are convinced that they will even do better in the coming year. Others thought that unless the Redskins dump their coach, Bill McPeak, they would permanently remain in the bottom half of the Eastern Conference of the NFL. Ever the skeptic, Lloyd Redmayne suggests, “The only reason that the Redskins improved at all is because their racist owner, George Marshall, finally got a black player in Bobby Mitchell. And that brother tore up and down the field, blowing by all defenders and scoring more touchdowns for the Redskins then they have seen since the 1930s. They got to get rid of their owner as well as get a new coach. In my lifetime, I would like to see a Black coach and a Black quarterback, but that ain’t gonna happen, not with the Redskins.”
“Amen to that,” says Courtney, happy to find something he and the Negus can agree on. David suggests that we find another team to root for because the Redskins will always cause you heartburn. “I’m getting heartburn just listening to you cynics badmouth my team. They’re gonna win a championship one day,” I predict.
“Yeah and the USA will have a Black President one day,” says James shaking his head in disbelief. That tears it. We all laugh uncontrollably for several minutes until we simultaneously complain of belly pain. Lloyd Redmayne is laughing so hard he damned near falls into the Reflecting Pool. Colby reels him in just in time. But in the process, Colby loses his balance and falls face first into the Pool. Now the laughter becomes so hard and prolonged, the belly pain is almost unbearable. As Colby pulls himself up, the Negus can barely get the words out between his guffaws. “Hey Colby, don’t you know that swimming is not allowed in the Reflecting Pool.” Still caught up in the giggles, Bee Bop chooses this moment to give me half of his powdered doughnut. Without thinking about it, I take a bite. I suddenly remember my panic attack when Courtney offered me the same treat in Chemistry Lab. This sets me back into laughter, and I am in such pain that I am rolling round on the grass. Bee Bop looks totally confused. “What did I do?” he asks me. This makes me laugh even more. When I can finally compose myself, I tell him that he has just reminded me that I am cured of my Negrophobia. “Aw Izzy, you are one strange white cat.” I tell the group the story and Courtney turns crimson. He says, “You know I wondered for the longest time why you were so hesitant to take a bite out of that doughnut. I thought you were worried about the acid stains on my hand. But that made no sense because you had just as much acid on your hands.”
“And I was too embarrassed to tell you what I was really worried about. I was absolutely terrified of becoming nigrafied.”
“Oh yeah, Izzy, ain’t nothing worse than being nigrafied,” says, Lloyd. Once again we engage in a group guffaw. The nearby
marchers are beginning to look a little perturbed at what must have seen to them to be a pack of hyenas yucking it up.
It’s approaching two o’clock when the speeches are to begin, and all of us are feeling the heat. Even though I have lived in DC all my life, it still surprises me how intense the August heat can become. The high humidity increases our suffering because it feels like we’re breathing with a wet rag over our faces.
Claudine is waving an ineffective fan that she has retrieved from her purse. “You know what, boys, we need to find some shade. Let’s head for the trees on the side of the Memorial. We all agree and start heading for our new destination. As we walk among the sea of signs I see one that rivets my attention: We Seek in 1963 the Freedom that was Promised in 1863. It is truly sad to realize that it has been 100 years since the Emancipation Proclamation and Negroes are still treated so hideously in the so-called “Land of the Free”.
Off to the right side of the Lincoln Memorial, I see two familiar faces holding signs. It was Archie Green, the card shark I met at the Student Union my freshman year.
With him is Archie’s best friend, Rayford Dixon. Archie is holding up a sign that says No U.S. Dough to Help Jim Crow Grow. I laughed to myself as I remembered the student protest at Howard against segregated unions contracted to build the new Burr Gymnasium. Ray Dixon’s sign says We March for Jobs For All/ A Decent Pay Now. “Hey Archie, Ray, what the hell are you guys doing here?” They both look at me and didn’t immediately recognize me. They were in shock to have their attendance at the March questioned by some unknown white boy. “Who the fuck are you?” a perturbed Archie Green says to me. His uncomprehending eyes looked me up and down in fear. “It’s me, Izzy, Izzy White. We met a few years back at the Student Union. You and Ray asked me the same question about my attending Howard. “ Ray is the first to recognize me. Oh yeah, I dig ya now. Hey Archie, don’t you remember, you did your Black survival rap for this white cat after you cleaned out a group of fellow students in a card game. Archie scratches his goatee and looks at me again with greater intensity until recognition comes. “Well, I’ll be damned. What’s happenin’, Izzy? What the hell are you doing here?”
“The same as you. Supporting a good cause. But I have the virtue of consistency. I told you guys four years ago that I was sympathetic to the cause. You, however, thought that any political or direct action was to quote you, ‘A fucking waste of time’.”
“Yes, well that was before the sit-ins, before I learned about NAG and SNCC and the power of the student movement. Much to my surprise, I learned that direct action was dangerous, exciting, life threatening, and ultimately effective. In fact, I found that hassling racist peckerwoods was more fun than getting rich playing cards.” And Ray interjects, “Like I told you before, the issue is power. And when I saw what the student movement has produced in the last four years, I’m convinced that we can bury Jim Crow once and for all. What about you, Izzy? What are your plans?”
“I’ve been amazed by what has been accomplished and depressed by the horror of the racist resistance. And I now know that I can only root from the sidelines. I don’t have the balls to become a full time activist. So I’m off to grad school in two weeks.” Courtney jumps into the discussion, “But Izzy, you’re here at the biggest march ever for Negro rights. You’re braver than you think.”
“Maybe, but I never bought into the hysteria surrounding the March. I’ve always passed the hysteria off to mass Negrophobia.” Lloyd Redmayne adds, “You’re right about that, Izzy. And the hysteria starts at the top. The President is shitting his pants right now because he’s afraid that when you get a large group of niggers together, you know a riot’s gonna happen. That’s why he wants all the niggers out of town before sundown. Don’t you know the Army is hiding somewhere around the Memorial just waiting for us Jiggaboos to get out of hand? “
“But I see a lot of white people in the crowd.”
“Worse yet. Everybody expects Negroes to turn on the whites in the crowd and start an interracial riot right here on the grounds of the Lincoln Memorial.” Lloyd throws a fake jab at me. ‘Take that, Izzy Whiteman,” the Negus says as he begins his dance of laughter. We all laugh at Lloyd’s parody. Vince announces that the speeches are about to begin. Dick Gregory is at the microphone and he says, “The last time I’ve seen so many black people was in a Birmingham jail.” I look around at what seemed a half-a-million people laughing at Gregory’s line. People stretched from the Lincoln Memorial all the way back to the Washington Monument.
The Star Spangled Banner is sung, and then Archbishop O’Boyle gives the invocation. A. Philip Randolph, the Organizer of the March, begins the speeches:
“We are gathered here today for the largest demonstration in the history of this nation. Let the nation and the world know the meaning of our numbers.”
Contradicting the critics of the March, he continues that we are not a pressure group or mob. “We are the advance guard of a massive moral revolution for jobs and freedom. “ Thundering applause accompanies loud yells and whistles. Toward the end of his remarks, he adds “The March on Washington is not the climax of our struggle, but a new beginning not only for the Negro but for all Americans who thirst for freedom and a better life.” His remarks fill me with a rare moment of happiness and self-contentment that I pushed myself to attend this historical event.
The sun has become so intense that it affects our concentration. In search of shade, we all agree to continue our sojourn toward the more heavily treed area almost behind the Memorial. As we do, we hear the Opera singer, Marion Anderson, who 25 years before had been denied the right to sing at the DAR Constitution Hall because of her color. She is singing He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands. At one shady expanse we see a group of NAG members and with them are Desirie and Michael White. Michael had been the first person I met at Howard who prophesied to me that “a change is gonna come”. After an extended round of introductions, Michael White grabs me and says, “You see, Izzy, a change is underway. You remember when I told you it was coming? Well, by God, it’s here! It’s here, Izzy, and I sill can’t believe my own words and my own eyes. “ “You were right, Michael. I didn’t really understand what you originally meant. But now I do, Michael, now I do. We clap each other on the back. In my enthusiasm, I grab Desirie’s hand and give her the warmest of greeting. In return I am met with a very cool hello. So many people, so many signs, I can hardly see anything. Some marchers have climbed the trees in order to see what’s going on. John Lewis, The Chairman of SNCC is the next speaker. Lewis was tough on President Kennedy’s Civil Rights Bill that is currently before Congress. But I am more taken by his critique of Congress and his call for a social revolution.
My friends let us not forget that we are involved in a serious social revolution. By and large, American politics is dominated by politicians who build their careers on immoral compromises and ally themselves with open forms of political, economic, and social exploitation.
And his response to Congressional failure:
"If we do not get meaningful legislation of this Congress, the time will come when we will not confine our marching to Washington.
We will march through the South, through the streets of Jackson, through the streets of Cambridge, through the streets of Birmingham.
But we will march with the spirit of love and with the spirit of dignity that we have shown here today. By the force of our demands, our determination and our numbers, we shall splinter the desegregated South into a thousand pieces and put them back together in the image of God and democracy. We must say, “Wake up America. Wake up!!!”
The members of NAG who are with us are hooting and hollering their applause and support. Phil Workman whispers to me, “You should hear what he was originally gonna say. But Randolph talked him into cutting his more inflammatory metaphors.”
“Like what, Phil?” He is shushed into silence so I never learn what Lewis had to cut.
Lewis’s speech affirms the core belief of eve
ryone there. Yes it’s a fight for Negro rights, but more importantly it’s a fight for the democratic ideal. Everyone’s freedom is yoked to that of Negroes. There are so many shouts of “Amen”, “You tell ‘em”, and “Preach it Rev. Lewis” that I think the collective mood can reach no greater heights. Our group is so high that we can barely absorb what the next group of speakers has to say. But I am so gratified to hear that the next speaker, a white Walter Reuther President of the UAW and CIO, tells the capacious crowd that Negroes should not be patient about obtaining their rights, rights guaranteed by the Constitution. I surprise myself when I let out with a very loud “DAMN STRAIGHT.” Claudine laughs and says, “Izzy, I swear you must have Black blood in your family.”
“Claudine, today I am Black, white, yellow, red and every other color that exists in the citizenry of the United States of America. This has been a great day so far.”