Monday, November 2, 1931:
Bennett and I lunched together; we talked all afternoon. He said—this is as much as he has ever talked about himself—that he wants to join the staff of the national society for colored affairs when he graduates. He does not feel it is doing all it can for the negro people, but he thinks it is a good start. What the hell am I going to be? to do? How and where am I going to situate myself to do what little I can? At least I know one thing; I do not want to go home and collect rents for my father.
Tuesday, November 3, 1931:
I am still thinking about a profession. The Crimson will be holding a competition soon. I may go out for it. I saw Bennett tonight for a short while. We both have studying to do.
Saturday, November 14, 1931:
I took Elaine to a party; actually she took me. Everybody was from “home.” It was wonderful hearing the southern way of speaking all at once, and again. I met a lot of nice people, especially girls.
Monday, November 16, 1931:
Sometimes I think Bennett and I are not really friends; that is, we hardly ever talk about personal things: clothes, girls, subjects (except where they enter into our future plans), or anything friends usually talk about. We talk always of politics, theories of government, communism vs. capitalism, the race problem. But then, these are the things which truly interest us and—why not?
The reason I express the doubt is because we can never double-date or go to the same parties. I am, I must confess, even with my liberal feelings, a clubbie, and more, a southerner. I had to come to the cold and bleak of New England to find that out. I walk through the Square and find myself comparing things, always comparing things: “The people seem sadder here than at home,” I will say. Or “The houses are not as pretty,” or “The people are less friendly,” or, and finally and what I am getting at, “The girls are not as nice.” This I always say and my feelings about this, more than anything else, keep Bennett and me apart socially. Because though we know girls here, girls who are in the liberal groups, I have yet to find one among them I would want to take out.
The reason this comes up is that I asked Bennett whether he would like to go double with me to The Game. He looked at me, shocked. “My dear fellow, have you gone completely insane?”
“Why?”
“Why indeed. Think of the girls you’ve been dating here. Why, it’s as if you never left the South. And how do you think they would take to me? Like kittens to water. You certainly couldn’t go to any of your friends’ parties.”
I continued to defend the idea though I could see now it was a bad one. “Well, we wouldn’t have to go; we could just have a foursome. That might be nicer. Big parties are always sloppy and too noisy anyway.”
He put his hand on my shoulder and smiled sadly. “David, it’s better the way it is. We can’t push our friendship into places where it’s not wanted. Our friendship need not be all-encompassing; it need not include all of the trivial things that make up life. In our hearts we believe in the same things and what we’re trying to do is work for the day when we can, indeed, go to a Pudding gathering together. Don’t you agree? Now don’t worry about me. I have parties to go to and friends to see in Boston. If we try to push this too far, too soon, we won’t have anything.”
I know he is right but—God damn!
Tuesday, February 9, 1932:
Bennett and I have decided to room together next year. We hope to get into Adams House, B-entry, which is the old Gold Coast, built for millionaires, gaudy, and Victorian as all hell.
Thursday, March 10, 1932:
Today (the last minute) we handed in our application to room with one another in Adams, Winthrop, and Lowell Houses in that order of choice. I have quite gotten over my awareness that he is a negro, but still I have not told my family. Of course, I have told them all about him (how could I avoid it?), even how he looks with his portly build, but always omitting the color of his skin. I know I must tell them because they will find out sooner or later and I do not want them to think I kept it from them because I am ashamed of him. I do not, however, want to write it to them. Perhaps I will do it when I go home for spring vacation. I hope they do not make a huge thing of it because I will have to make a stand, and to be honest (I know no one will see this record), I need them, at least to send me through school. I am not as diligent and hard-working as Bennett, who is working thirty hours a week in his cleaning shop and still doing fine enough work to be in the top fifth of our class.
Monday, April 25, 1932:
I forgot to take this journal home and have not had time since I returned to write here, but now I will try to catch up.
The most important thing that happened at home was that I told my parents about Bennett.
I had waited until just before they went to bed, when they were in their room and the Calibans would not hear or come in. (I did that just in case my parents got a little heated and said derogatory things about negroes that perhaps they would not have ordinarily said.)
Mother was sitting up in bed, looking very pretty and feminine in a nightgown. The warm light caught her gray hair and made it twinkle. Father was sitting in the chair, scanning the paper.
I decided not to hem and haw. “Bennett Bradshaw is a negro,” I said, just like that. “He’s the boy I want to—”
“He’s a what?” I was quite sure Father would have said this, but he was just looking up very calmly over the tops of his glasses and his newspaper. Mother had spoken, her hands planted firmly at her sides holding her body stiff and straight from the waist. Under the covers I could see her legs moving excitedly.
“He’s a negro, Mother. The boy I’m going to—”
“And you’re actually going to live with him for three years? Why…why…you must be joking, David.”
“No, I’m not, Mama.” I had not called her that in a long time. “He’s my best friend at school—”
“I don’t care what he is! You’re not going to live with him. You’re not even going to speak to him, ever again. Do you hear me, David?” There was a funny quality to her voice; she should have been yelling, but instead she seemed almost to be whispering.
I nodded, but just to tell her I had heard her, and turned to Father, who was still peering over the paper, his face as lifeless as mud; I could not tell at all what he might be thinking.
“David!” Mother was talking again. “Do you realize what you’re doing? Do you actually realize? Why I wouldn’t be surprised if you were never invited to another respectable party in your life. Rooming with a negro—why that’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard.”
“And you are unbelievably bigoted.” I had wanted to stay calm, but all of a sudden I had blurted that out and saw my mother’s face turn pink, and her mouth drop open. And then she started to sputter.
“You shouldn’t show that kind of disrespect to your mother, son, even if you’re thinking such things.” Father finally spoke and folded the paper in his lap and leaned forward.
But I certainly could not call the words back down my throat, and although my head was not too clear at the time—my ears were filling up with a buzzing sound; pictures and words were popping like cannons—I am not at all sure I wanted to call them back. I just turned on him too.
“It isn’t fair of you to send me to a place like that and expect me to remain a good, aristocratic, southern white boy!” Only the sentence was not that clear. “There are some fellows there that don’t even believe in God! And you expect—”
“I don’t expect anything.” Mother had recovered. She turned to Father, who returned her look. “Demetrius? I told you he would be better off at State. I told you that ages ago. now it’s gone too far. Next September David will go to the State University at Willson City.”
Father did not say anything; I could not see his face too well and thought I saw him nod, as if in agreement, and that was too much. The
buzzing in my ears got louder and I started to cry. I have not cried in so long I forgot what it feels like; it is like vomiting. You start sobbing and you cannot see, and your stomach feels like hell. God, it was bad. They were both looking at me and I could not face them. “Awh, shit!” I said and turned and grabbed at the knob, missing it a few times, finally got the door open, ran down the hall and locked myself in the bathroom. I felt like a seven-year-old girl!
I was running the water, mopping my face and trying to stop crying, which I did pretty quick, though I was still sobbing, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, when I heard someone knocking at the door and my father’s voice, calling, “David. Unlock the door, son.”
I told him to go away, not so much because I was mad at him as I did not want anyone to see me, especially him. He is a hard little man; I mean, I have never seen anything upset him like that. But he kept talking through the door and finally I let him in.
He is small, at least a half-head shorter than I am and has iron-gray hair and clear gray eyes and here I was, looking down at him and sobbing. I felt foolish. He did not say anything, just came in, not looking at me, went to the toilet, put down the top, and sat.
I sat on the tub and kept swabbing my face with cold water, and drank some. Then I turned off both me (the sobbing) and the water.
We sat in silence for a few more minutes, then he looked at me. “You’re right, boy. Can’t expect you to come back and be the same as you always were. You got to change some. In my day this wouldn’t have happened because everybody had to shift for himself, find his own room and the more money you had, the better place you’d live in and you’d be living with boys of your own level and type. They’d be your friends. But what with this new system, they take the money out of it and so you get a cross-cut. Right?”
I nodded.
He smiled, looking at the tile. “The old place has really got you by the toe, and it’s not letting go soon, is it?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, don’t worry. You’re not leaving until you get put out one way or the other: flunking or graduating. I’ll see to that.” He looked at me squarely; I could have run a thousand miles and never got out of his gaze. “Now tell me something. Why’s it you want to room with this colored boy?”
I thought, but did not know what to say, and finally mumbled: “Because I like him and I learn a hell of a lot from him. But I guess it’s mostly that I like him.”
He leaned back and put his hands into the pockets of his bathrobe. “That’s what I wanted to hear you say. If you’d said something silly about the equality of man, or that you were trying to make your blow for a better world, I would have told you that you’re making a mistake. You don’t make friends with folks because it’s right, you make friends because you like them and can’t help liking them.” He paused. “Don’t worry. I’ll square it with your mother somehow.” He got up, even before I could thank him, and went out the door.
So that is the way it was. God, what a showing!
Before I left, I apologized to Mother; she did not look at me.
Sunday, May 1, 1932:
Elaine Howe got engaged to, of all people, a fellow from Bangor, Maine.
Saturday, May 28, 1932:
Bennett took his last exam yesterday and left this morning. He has to start work in New York on Monday. He certainly has strength of purpose; he will not have a vacation for a long time. As for me, I have been stuffing knowledge frantically and am almost completely exhausted. I shall miss talking to him, but we will write this summer and of course room together next year in Adams House.
Friday, November 23, 1934:
When I got home from my classes (about noon) there were two telegrams for Bennett under the door. I was supposed to have lunch with him at one, was to meet him in the dining room, so I took them with me.
I was sitting at the end near the windows looking out on the old gray buildings across Bow Street, starting my meal with a cup of coffee, when he came in, took off his overcoat, put down his books. I waved to attract his attention and after he got his food, he came and sat down. “These came for you.” I handed him the yellow envelopes. “I hate the God-damn things. They always bring some kind of disturbing news and they’re so damned impersonal about it.” I laughed.
“I agree.” He smiled, picked up his knife and slit open the first one.
I was watching him, hoping the news was good, but could not tell from his face. He handed the telegram across to me:
MOTHER PASSED AWAY TEN-TWENTY
AMELIA
I did not know what to say. He was reading the other telegram but mumbled to me, knowing I was looking at him. “Amelia’s my sister.” Then he handed me the other telegram:
MOTHER SUDDENLY ILL COME QUICK
AMELIA
He was watching me when I looked up from the second telegram.
“God, Bennett, I really don’t…”
“She was quite a young woman—thirty-eight. It was hard work.” He looked down at his plate.
I almost asked him what was hard work, but then realized that had he finished the sentence it would have been: that killed her. I did not say anything. I was looking at him intently, not realizing for a moment I was searching almost sadistically for some show of emotion. I did not expect him to burst into tears before me; I wanted to see, though, just exactly what he would do. I found myself thinking: All right, Bennett Bradshaw. You can cope with anything; nothing upsets you. Well, let us see how you handle this one. Let us see if you can be so damned smug about this. I felt ashamed when I realized what was going through my mind.
But he showed no sign of cracking and I was glad. I guess I simply wanted to see if he was human (he is, very; I mean in this situation) and hoped he would prove to be. As many times as I have written here about him, it must be obvious I idealize him quite a bit.
He was looking at me. I hope he could not read my thoughts. “I’ll have to go to New York today.” He stood up. “I’ll go and try to get in touch with them. Have you got a timetable?”
I shook my head.
“No matter. I’ll call the station.” And then he was gone, striding to the other end of the dining room where he had left his things.
I saw him again for a few minutes in the room, but he was in a hurry and I did not get a chance to talk to him.
Tuesday, November 27, 1934:
Bennett got back from New York this morning—with very bad news. His father is not alive and so he has three sisters and two brothers, all under eighteen, to care for all by himself. He can farm them out to various relatives, but he wants to keep the family together and that means he will have to leave school almost immediately and get a full-time job. He is going to try his best to finish the term, but he is not sure he can. I so wanted to tell him I would wire my father and get him enough to last until February, but I think maybe he would have declined my offer and may even have been hurt and insulted. God, with just over a half year to go, this had to happen to him. And he deserves to get his degree, would do so much with it.
Thursday, December 20, 1934:
I am writing this on the train now, going home for Christmas vacation. Bennett and I came down from Cambridge together in a truck he borrowed from his uncle, some kind of junk dealer, to bring his belongings, especially his books (he could not bring himself to sell them) to New York. He (Bennett) drove me right to Penn Station.
Driving down, we tried to keep our minds off the realization we would not see each other for a long time, and talked rather of those things that will keep us together in spirit and thought, if not in body: our common aspirations for social betterment, our common hatred of ignorance, poverty, disease, and misery, what we hope to do about it. Bennett did most of the talking, his voice resonant and eloquent, like he was addressing a thousand people, using only his voice, which has always been enough to captivate me, when we were going through a
village or town, or when the road twisted dangerously through the trees, and using his hands when the snow-banked road was straight. “After you graduate, you go back South and get that writing job. We’ll need your articles; you’ll be our ‘agent.’ You can let us know what’s going on. You can write articles about the situation and I’ll get them published in New York. We’ll shame them, persuade them, bombard them into a better way of doing things. And everybody will benefit. Think of what we can accomplish if we work hard!”
We rattled on closer to the city in the unheated cab of the truck, not noticing we were cold, not having or wanting to give time to think about that.
We reached the city early in the evening and moved downtown toward Pennsylvania Station.
Bennett parked the truck on a side street and I climbed down from the cab and went around to the bed to throw back a stiff, gray tarp and lift down my suitcase.
“Redcap, sir?” Bennett came up next to me and smiled. A taxi swished by through the black slush, and sprayed his legs.
“No, thanks. I’ll carry it.” I hefted it in my right hand. My books made it heavy. (I hope this time I can study at home.)
He looked at me squarely. “No, let me. The purpose of friends is to do such things.”
So I handed him the bag and we climbed over a low bank of dirty snow and headed toward the avenue where pink and green lights shone and we could see the high stone columns of the station.
“Do you think you’ll get to finish up? School, I mean.” I did not turn my head to look at him.
“I think so. Amelia will graduate from high school in June and doesn’t want to continue her education; perhaps she isn’t equipped to do so. She’ll get a job and keep the others until I can finish.”
We stopped at the corner and watched for a second, even after the light changed, the cruising taxis, and brightly painted delivery trucks, and the people, many of them carrying suitcases and trudging toward the station. We crossed the street.
A Different Drummer Page 16