Izzy White?

by Barry Wolfe

  After the consummate joy of the last two speeches and the emotional high that accompanied them, I am drained. I zone out. I can take in no more. And that is too bad because I really wanted to hear James Farmer of CORE, Whitney Young of the National Urban League and Roy Wilkins of the NAACP. The next voice I’m aware of is that of Gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson, singing “I’ve been ‘buked and I’ve been scorned”. The only other time I have ever heard such a soulful, passionate lamentation was when I heard the opera singer Richard Tucker sing “Kol Nidre”. I look around at the group of people who I have accompanied to this moment, and, like me, they seem to be awakening from a prolonged sleep drawn to this voice of tears and pain. Our attention is riveted, our eyes moist, and our hearts riven with shared pain, pain that has nothing to do with color. Every human being who is alive this day knows the pain of being scorned, rebuked, and mistreated. There seems to be no escape from the malevolence of other human beings who look, act, think, and believe differently. And now comes Rev. Martin Luther King. Before A. Philip Randolph finishes his introduction a quarter of a million of us erupt into sustained applause for, in Randolph’s words, “the leader of a moral revolution”. I had heard some of his speeches before and was already enthralled by his moving metaphors. I am not disappointed today.

  But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free.

  "One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination."

  From the multitude come the myriad sounds of affirmation. I rise up and throw my fist in the air. A few moments later King pleads:

  "It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent…"

  Mel Gray wipes his face and says, “Amen to that!”

  "…will not pass until there is the invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest or tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges."

  We all stand up and join in the thunderous applause that overtakes the entire area of the Mall.

  "The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound with our freedom."

  I jump to my feet again and yell out “Yes!” But I notice that I am conspicuously alone.

  King begins to describe his dream. And with each element of the dream, the crowd’s mood rises.

  "It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.'

  I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

  I have a dream today.

  I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, “and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.”

  Now everyone around me stands up and cheers and I silently remain seated. The atheist in me keeps me rooted to the ground.

  And then comes his finale which leaves us all in high sprits, great hope, and emotional ecstasy:

  "But not only that:

  Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

  Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

  Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi

  From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

  And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring,

  when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet,

  from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up

  that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men,

  Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to

  Join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

  Free at last! Free at last!

  Thank God, Almighty, we are free at last!"

  We all look at one another and no one is able to speak. King’s words touch a very private place in each of us. His refrain of “I have a dream today” tells me dreams are the necessary prerequisite to action. And his dream is one I share: That one day everyone will grasp the necessity of viewing others as worthy of respect; that beyond all of the artificial categories of rank, status, class, race and religion, we are all made from the same fallible clay. His dream clarifies for me what I truly believe, who I really am. That is the unexpected gift of my time at Howard. Until this moment I had thought the phrase “To thine own self be true” was little more than a Shakespearian aphorism. I had searched for so much during my four years at Howard, the cure for my phobia, a special girl, validation of my quest to play college basketball, a career path; but I found the one thing I never expected to find—me, a self to be true to.

  We remain speechless as everyone in our accidental group looks deeply into one another’s eyes for a seemingly endless interval. Then we give one another a final goodbye hug. The group disperses in every direction, but two remain--Mel and Desirie.

  “Well, Mel, I guess this is it. I doubt if I will see you again before I leave for Illinois.”

  “Izzy, I wish you the best.”

  “So I guess we can remain friends.” In a gentle mocking tone, I add. “Your conditions have been met. Desirie and I are not together either actually or romantically.” Desirie scowls at me, and Mel objects.

  “Aw Izzy, don’t.…” I interrupt him. “I’m just messing with you, Mel. Didn’t your X-Ray pick that up?”

  “Nah, I’m too damn nervous about saying goodbye.” With that, he grabs me in an intense bear hug. I return the embrace and beg him to please stay in touch.

  “I never would neglect my best friend, Izzy. “ I blush from this . “And now I’m gonna give you two a moment alone.” Smiling sweetly, Desirie puts her hand on my cheek. “Izzy, you’re such a sweet putz, and I’m going to miss you terribly.” I laugh at her “yiddishkeit”. The doleful pain begins in my chest as I study—perhaps for the last time—Desirie’s beautiful brown face, her luminous smile, and her lust-seeding body. One by one my erogenous zones that she had so gently brought to life say a silent goodbye to her.

  “Izzy, I hate to admit it, but you were right. As much as I loved you and still love you, we are not right for one another. We come from such different worlds, and our lives seem to be heading in different directions. I know that I have tried to make you something you’re not. But that was only because the thought of losing you is so hard to bear.”

  “I know, Desirie. I wanted very much to be what you wanted, but as hard as I tried I’d get to a certain point and get lost. I no longer felt like me. It was very confusing because I know we want the same thing, but for different reasons. “

  “Just because we are passionate about each other and we share some basic beliefs about Negro and human rights does not mean we can succeed in making a life together. Besides we’re too young to get married. We’re still trying to figure out who we are, and unless we know that, we have no chance of succeeding as life partners.”

  “I know you’re right, but I want to be together with you. I can’t bear to lose that. It’s so good with us.”

  “You’re just a horny white man, Izzy.”

  “If so, I’m horny just f
or you. I don’t want to sleep with anybody else.”

  “That won’t last long,” Desirie says with a chuckle. But then she sees the sadness that comes over me, and she shifts out of her glibness. “Look, Izzy, it’s been wonderful to be close to you that way, but we have to move on. I sincerely want us both to each find another partner who will be just as fulfilling.” The thought of her with another man shuts down my ability to speak. “Listen, I have to go. I wish a wonderful life for you, Izzy.” With that, she gives me a soft kiss on my lips. When I try to extend the kiss to a more passionate level, she pushes me away. “No, Izzy!” Then more softly, “Goodbye.” She turns and walks toward the Reflecting Pool. I can barely see Mel standing by the pool waiting for her. As I watch her grow smaller in size, I look around to see the dissipating crowd going back to their shuttles, buses and cars. Soon the sign-littered grassways and the multitude of paper wrappings blowing in the wind like the idea of change itself are the only evidence left of today’s momentous event, the largest and possibly the most morally portentous march ever held in the Nation’s capital. I walk over to the Lincoln Memorial, stand in front of it just staring at the magnificent sculpture of a rare human being. I stand here for the longest time wondering what “The Great Emancipator” would have thought of this march and its large interracial turnout. I think he would be amazed by the turnout, but appalled to discover that our country is still so flummoxed by the racial divide and still fighting over the freedom of Black people. Despite the portents of positive change, the miasma of white supremacy is still poisoning the fragile growth of racial harmony. As if the statue were real, I say aloud “Yep, Mr. Lincoln, same old shit.”

  Acknowledgements

  Many people contributed to the creation of this book beginning with my teammates and fellow students from long ago days at Howard University. They unknowingly contributed to the formation of my memories; and these have served as the fuel for the unfolding story of Izzy White? The novel was well served by the contemporary assistance tendered by several dear friends and colleagues who read early drafts. Dr. Paul Wachtel gave me a wealth of suggestions, criticisms, and creative advice. Dr. Kathryn Fentress also provided some excellent suggestions for improvement. Other friends and colleagues who read the novel and gave me sage advice include Dr. Mark Frankel, Joanne Gottheil, Scott Stossel (himself a wonderful editor and writer), Suzanne Payne, a Howard classmate and now dear friend, and my son and daughter-in-law, Neal and Emily Weiner. Other classmates gave me wonderful historical information about basketball and fraternity life at Howard; they include Wendell Boyd and Marshall Ishler. My nephew, Forest Rothchild, not only read the novel, but also helped this “computer dinosaur” prepare the manuscript for conversion into an Ebook. He also has constructed my new website. My gratitude for his efforts is boundless. Finally, words fail to do justice to the magnitude of love, support, and commitment that my soul mate, Annette, gave to this project. She served in several roles in producing the novel. She was a wonderful copy-editor, a supportive but challenging sounding board, and a sensitive and insightful “typical reader”. She uncovered many false notes that found their way into the early drafts of the novel. In addition, she was an amazing hope peddler during those terrible moments when I thought I was wasting my time. Despite all this support, I am the lone culprit for any errors of fact, questionable writing, and dubious story making found within.