New Boy

by Julian Houston

  "It's from someone back home," I said. "A girl I met over the Christmas holidays."

  "How'd you meet her?" said Gordie.

  "At a party," I said with a quick smile, thinking of how Mrs. Braxton had led me through her living room and straight to Paulette. "Hey, I haven't seen you in a while. How's it going?"

  "Same old story," said Gordie with a sigh. He sounded bored. "Still in the rat race and the rats are winning. I'm hoping to make the honor roll again this marking period, but it's going to be close. Greek Two is a killer and physics is worse. What about you?"

  "Same boat," I said. "When I got back from Christmas vacation, I had so much on my mind that I guess I kind of let things slide. I was in sort of a daze. McGregor even kept me after class to talk to me about it."

  "Oh, yeah?" said Gordie. "What did he say?"

  "That I was in trouble," I said. "That my work hadn't been up to honor roll standards and I was in danger of falling off." I felt an awkward silence that I was reluctant to fill. I wasn't sure if I should mention what McGregor had said about the faculty, but then I decided that since I was talking to Gordie, it was okay. "Oh, yeah, he said that the faculty had been talking about me being the first Negro student here and they were hoping I would succeed. I'd never heard that one before."

  "Sounds like he was doing you a favor," said Gordie.

  "Yeah, I guess he was. But it was still hard for me to really bear down again. I managed to do it, but I'm just hoping I did it in time to stay on the honor roll." I hesitated to say anything more, and then I did anyway. "I've just had a lot on my mind."

  "Like what?" Gordie looked curious as well as sympathetic, but we were standing in the mailroom and lunch must have been over, because students were coming in and out all the time.

  "Let's go for a walk," I said, and we went outside and drifted across the campus into a stiff March wind that billowed our clothes.

  "This girl I met at home over Christmas vacation," I said. "I really like her."

  Gordie was listening closely. "Wait a minute," he interrupted. "You didn't do it with her, did you? She's not pregnant, is she?"

  "No, no, no," I said, laughing. "It's not like that at all. It's just hard to be away from her. And I also got involved with this group of kids at home that's planning a sit-in to protest segregation at the Woolworth's in town."

  "Did you see the New York Times this morning?"

  "I sure did. We're planning the same kind of thing."

  "Why Woolworth's?"

  "Because they won't allow Negroes to sit at the lunch counters at their stores in the South. You can buy a notebook or a box of pencils, but you can't sit down and have a cup of coffee."

  "But you can sit at a lunch counter at the Woolworth's in New York. I've seen colored people at the lunch counter in the store on Forty-second Street many times."

  "That's the point. Woolworth's is being hypocritical. It has one policy for stores in the North and another for stores in the South."

  "What are you going to do?" said Gordie. We had veered away from the footpath and were walking on the stiff brown grass. The earth felt as hard as stone.

  "We're going to try to break the back of segregation at home by making an example of Woolworth's," I said. "We're going to start on March 19 with one group of college students who'll sit down at a lunch counter until they are either served or arrested, and if they are taken away, another group will be standing by to take their seats, and we'll fill up the jails with as many people as we can." Gordie and I were walking toward the golf course, directly into the sun, and I was squinting and my eyes were starting to water, and I felt far, far from home. I realized that I was describing a world to Gordie that he knew nothing about.

  "And where do you fit into all of this?" he said. "I hope you're not planning to go down there and get arrested yourself?" He looked very concerned, but he sounded patronizing.

  "They aren't asking the high school students to get arrested. They just want us to pass out information leaflets in front of the store," I said. "But now my girl says in her letter that the parents are putting pressure on the high school kids to stay away altogether." The wind was brisk and I was shivering, but it felt good to finally talk to someone about everything that had been on my mind.

  "You haven't answered my question," said Gordie, in a schoolmaster's voice, and I thought he was acting pretty cocky, though I was relieved that I had taken him into my confidence.

  "I want to be there when it happens," I said. "I want to be there, not up here in this no man's land—or this no colored man's land, anyway—but I don't know how to pull it off. I can't be in two places at one time."

  Gordie seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. "It may not be that difficult," he said, and at last I felt that he was on my side.

  "What do you mean?" I said.

  "Just apply for a weekend furlough," he said. "March 19 is a Friday. You can leave Thursday afternoon after classes and take the night train to Virginia. You'll be home early Friday morning. I'll lend you the money for the train if you need it." It sounded so simple. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I smiled into the face of the sun. "How much do your parents know about this?" Gordie asked.

  "I don't know. I haven't really talked to them about it, but I'm sure they've been talking to other parents at home."

  "What are they going to say when you tell them you want to come home to be a part of a protest?"

  "They probably won't be too happy about it," I said. "I know I've got to talk to them."

  "Just pray that you make the honor roll again," said Gordie, "because if you don't, you won't need to talk to your parents. Your request for a furlough will be denied."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I wrote a letter to Mr. Spencer right away applying for a furlough for the weekend of March 19. While I was waiting for his reply, I studied as I had never studied before, staying up until three or four every morning, until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. I still had a chance for the honor roll—I was coming up with the right answers again in classes when my teachers were calling on me, and the teachers' comments on my papers and quizzes were once again positive. But I was exhausted.

  In Mr. McGregor's American history class, we were studying the Reconstruction period, the decade or so following the Civil War when the government was faced with providing for the citizenship and well-being of emancipated slaves and, at the same time, rebuilding the defeated South. For the last grade of the marking period, Mr. McGregor asked everyone to write a big paper comparing contemporary conditions in the country to those of the Reconstruction period. I was looking forward to working on that one. Segregation had begun in the South in response to Reconstruction. Our textbook said that there was actually a gentlemen's agreement between northern and southern politicians that the North wouldn't interfere with segregation in the South if the South would only support the Union. Over the years, the rights of Negroes became more and more restricted by segregation, and the Ku Klux Klan and other white groups used violence to keep Negroes from challenging the restrictions intended, as we said at home, "to keep us in our place." I could see lots of similarities between life after Reconstruction and life in the South today.

  I worked hard on the paper. The more I wrote, the more I found myself pouring my heart out about the aftermath of Reconstruction—how Negroes had been taken advantage of by whites, losing their land, losing the right to vote, and how southern whites used lynching to keep Negroes in their place. Even though the government had promised to protect us, when all was said and done, we had been abandoned. "Since Reconstruction ended," I wrote in my conclusion, "things haven't changed much in the South. Segregation has become the accepted way of life, but lately, among Negroes, there is a feeling of change in the air."

  Mr. McGregor held on to the papers for almost two weeks, and then on the last day of the marking period, he passed them out at the end of class. When he handed me my paper, I noticed that there was no grade on the front page. Instead, ther
e was a note at the top that said, "See me," so I hung around the classroom until the other students had left.

  "Have a seat, Garrett," said Mr. McGregor, in his warmest voice. I sat down wondering if this was his way of telling me that I wasn't going to make the honor roll after all. "Your paper on Reconstruction, Garrett. Excellent, an excellent piece of work."

  "Thank you, sir," I said. I wasn't sure if I should ask him about the grade, but I went ahead. "I didn't see the grade, sir."

  "Didn't see it?" he said. "Look on the last page." I turned to it. In the margin, in McGregor's untidy script, was written "A+—This is the finest paper I've received from a student in the last ten years. You've obviously thought very deeply about these issues, but you have also documented your sources and maintained your scholarly objectivity to an impressive degree."

  "I've decided to recommend your paper for the school's American History prize," Mr. McGregor said. "I can't say whether you'll win it. You'll be up against some upperclassmen who are pretty sharp, but I'm sure you've got a fighting chance."

  I was shocked. I didn't even know about the American History prize. "When do they announce the winner, sir?" I asked.

  "Not until the end of the year, on Prize Day," said McGregor. "By the way, Garrett, there was something about your paper that I found particularly interesting. You document a number of factors that could contribute to major changes taking place in the South, and you make a convincing argument that the days of segregation are coming to a close. If you're right, what do you think will be the most important factor in bringing about its end? The courts? The politicians in Washington? Or northern companies that do business in the South? As you point out in your paper, they all have a stake in the outcome. What do you think?"

  "I think it will come from the young people in the South," I said, without hesitating. "Young Negroes, and maybe a few young whites, who decide they don't want to live like that anymore. Did you hear about what happened in Greensboro, North Carolina, last month? That's the kind of thing I'm talking about." I was tempted to mention our sit-in, but I thought better of it.

  "But how will they do it?" Mr. McGregor asked. "They'll be up against an entire region of the country that has already succeeded in slowing the courts down to a crawl. How can a group of youngsters speed things up?"

  "They'll have to stand up for what they believe in, and be prepared to accept the consequences," I said. Mr. McGregor shook his head doubtfully, but I could tell he was sympathetic.

  "And resistance?" he said. "There's going to be a lot of resistance to something like this. Resistance in the South can be fierce. As you know from our readings, the South put up a hell of a fight in the Civil War, and I'm sure they won't walk away quietly from this battle."

  "That's true," I said, "but young Negroes in the South have an advantage. Unlike our parents, we don't yet have anything to lose. And we haven't lived under segregation for so long that we can't imagine what it's like to live without it. When we read a magazine or watch television or go to the movies and see how people are living in other parts of the country, we know something is wrong at home. I think we are ready to try to change things."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "Winter term grades are up," said Willoughby, sticking his curly blond head into my room. Willoughby lived next door and rarely left his room, except for classes and meals. He was considered a grind by the other students, but innocuous enough to be left alone, and he'd been on the honor roll for every marking period since he was a freshman.

  "How'd you do?" I said.

  "B-plus in Greek," said Willoughby. "But an A in everything else."

  "Not bad," I said. "Congratulations."

  "I've gotta get back to work," he said, and he disappeared from the doorway.

  I left my dorm and walked across the campus to the mailroom. With an hour to go until dinner, shadows were beginning to form across the campus, but the sky was still pale blue and cloudless. At Draper, grades were posted on a bulletin board inside the mailroom for everyone to see. While you may have been able to keep others from knowing about trouble in your family or your social life, there were no secrets about where you stood academically. If you were failing French, everybody knew. My heart was thumping as I went through the grade sheets. When I saw my last grade, an unexpected B in Latin, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I had done it. I had made the Draper honor roll again.

  When I got back to my dorm, I went straight downstairs to the two phone booths in the basement to call home. On the weekend, the phones were in constant use, but now they both were free. I sat down in a booth, closed the door, put a dime in the slot, and dialed the operator. When she came on, I placed a collect call to my parents and waited for someone to answer. After several rings my mother picked up the receiver and said, "Hello." She sounded out of breath, as though she had rushed from the kitchen, maybe wiping her hands on a dishtowel, to get to the telephone.

  "I have a collect call for anyone from Rob," said the operator. "Will you accept?"

  "Oh, my. Yes, of course," said my mother. "Rob? Are you there? Is everything all right?"

  "Everything's fine, Mom." I said. "Guess what! I've got good news. I just found out that I made the honor roll again."

  "Really?" she said. "That's wonderful! Your father will be so pleased. You've made us so proud, son."

  "There's something else, Mom. Mr. McGregor, my history teacher, has nominated one of my papers for the school's history prize. He says it was the best paper he'd seen in the last ten years." Mom was silent for a moment, and then she said over and over, "Oh, Robby. Oh, Robby. Just wait until I tell your father. He won't know what to say." I could tell she was on the verge of tears.

  "There's one more thing, Mom," I said. "Since I made the honor roll again, I'm allowed a weekend furlough and, if it's okay with you and Dad, I thought I'd like to come home for the weekend of March 19."

  "Oh, wouldn't that be grand!" said Mom. "But why do you want to come all the way down here? It's such a long trip. Why don't you just go down to New York and we'll drive up and we'll all stay at Owen's, like we did at Thanksgiving."

  "Well, there's someone I want to see at home. A girl."

  "You mean that little girl who kept calling you up the day before you went back to school? You don't have to worry about her. She isn't going anywhere."

  "I still want to see her, Mom," I insisted. "And there's another reason, too."

  "What's that?" she said. It was as if we were playing some sort of guessing game, and we had arrived at the turning point and I could tell from her voice that she knew what was coming next.

  "You know Russell's group has been planning a protest with some of the college kids for March 19 at the Woolworth's on Main Street. We started talking about it at that meeting that I went to during Christmas vacation. Some college kids are gonna sit down at the lunch counter and wait to be served, while the high school kids leaflet outside. Since I've been in on the planning and thinking about it all winter, I just have to be there. Will you send me the train fare so I can get a ticket for that weekend?" There was a long silence.

  "I don't know, son," she said. "I need to talk to your father. Of course we'd love to have you, but Robby, it sounds like there might be trouble. Don't you think there could be trouble?"

  "I don't think so, Mom," I said. "Everything's going to be right out in the open."

  "I know," said Mom. "But that won't stop some of these white folks around here. They'd shoot you in broad daylight. Let me talk to your father. Call us back this weekend. It sure is nice to hear about the honor roll, though. And that paper! Make sure you save it and bring it home, so we can read it!" She hung up quickly, as though she wanted to forget what I had asked of her.

  I returned to my room to prepare my assignments for the following day, but there was only a little time left before dinner and the sun was quickly dropping behind the hills. I stood in my window as the sun disappeared and darkness engulfed the campus like the tide. I didn't feel like
working. Although I still hadn't heard from Mr. Spencer, I was closer than ever to making the trip home, to seeing Paulette and Russell. One way or the other, I was going to the protest and passing out leaflets while Joseph and Albert and the others sat at the lunch counter. It was going to be a great moment, and I was going to be there. I couldn't wait to talk to my parents this weekend. I was sure I could persuade them to send me the train fare, but if they wouldn't, I could always take Gordie up on his offer.

  On Sunday afternoon, I called my parents when I knew they'd be back from church. Dad answered the telephone and accepted the charges. "Hello, son," he said. "Your mother says you made the honor roll again. Congratulations."

  "Thanks, Dad," I said. "Did she tell you about the paper?"

  "She sure did," he said. "That's quite a feather in your cap. I'm looking forward to reading it."

  After my earlier conversation with Mom, I thought I stood a better chance with Dad than I did with her, but before I could bring up the sit-in, he said, "Your mother told me about your call, and we've been talking about it steadily for the past couple of days. I don't think you should come down here now, son. I know the kids are planning this protest and all, but there's no telling what's going to happen, and if it gets out of control, you could get hurt. If you want to take a weekend off, I'll send you money for a ticket to go down to New York, and you can stay at Gwen's and your mother and I will drive up to see you."