by Sarah Relyea
Soon enough, Alice had a chance to see the principal’s office for herself. Ben Forman had been teasing her ever since she’d begun wearing jeans. “How come you look like a boy?” he demanded. “Where’s your dress?” From then on, he’d been following her around, remarking on her clothes. When she showed up in the burgundy dress, the only one she enjoyed wearing, he knew just what to say. “How come you always wear corduroy?” he pursued. “Your father, he’s too poor to buy you another one?”
Ben’s clothing was always clean and ironed. A good student, he’d been ashamed one day when he’d made a wrong response. Vaughan had laughed; Mrs. Whitman had ignored him as Ben coughed up another answer, the right one.
On the school bus, some of the girls from the Berkeley hills had fancy clothes, more costly than anything Alice had, though her family was doing well enough. She enjoyed wearing jeans, that was all.
“I wear what I choose,” she told Ben, as he pursued her nagging and taunting by the girl’s bathroom. He was more annoying than mean; but he followed her around so much that the other children had begun to comment, saying, “They be going together,” and laughing. She would not have them saying that; she would never go with him.
Alice had lunch now with Nora and Tammy, the teary girl, who was more fun than she’d seemed that first morning. She made revealing comments on everyone and was amused by Ben.
“He’s so churchy,” she said, giggling. “He has to be good, always.”
Alice began planning how she could make Ben leave her alone. Maybe if she called him a senseless name—nothing he could take personally—maybe then he would see how absurd the game was.
Then one day she was in the girls’ bathroom when she heard someone come in. Before she knew what was happening, a boy—one she’d never seen before—came crawling under the door of her stall. The boy was on the ground, peering up and smirking; placing her shoe on the boy’s forehead, she shoved as hard as she dared. The boy struggled for a moment, then he was gone. As she emerged from the bathroom, Ben came running by. She was burning with shame.
So when he approached her, murmuring, “Corduroy, corduroy,” she called him a bad name.
The bad name she nearly used was the wrong one, beyond the pale; for years her mother had warned her. But there was another word in heavy use on the playground—one that made her angry, and so she flung it at Ben.
“You’re a bitch,” she told him, hoping he would be confused and maybe leave her alone.
Ben stared at her. “What did you say?”
“You’re a bitch, you’re a—”
“Ooooh . . .” He tore off across the playground. She had not supposed it would be so easy.
A few minutes later, a playground counselor approached her, Ben trailing behind, smirking.
“Principal wants to see you,” the man announced. Hanging on him, Ben was bobbing with eagerness.
No one was supposed to squeal. That was really out-of-bounds, as Ben surely knew.
The principal, Mr. Boyd, was a small black man; he was wearing wire-framed glasses, a vest, and a pale-blue shirt. He had summoned her; he regarded Ben’s charge as worthy. Ben had changed the rules and squealed, and now she was in big trouble. Mr. Boyd would blame her; he’d already formed a conclusion, for Ben had been allowed to go.
She was feeling numb and cornered as Mr. Boyd waved her to a wooden chair. He leaned before her on a large paper-laden desk, the kind her father would use. She hardly knew the rules anymore. The telephone rang, unanswered; Mr. Boyd was a busy man. She wondered whether he would lose his temper and yell, as Kathy’s mother used to do.
“Now tell me,” he began, calmly, “why would you call Ben an ugly name?”
Though embarrassed by the charge, she would never argue. That only made grown-ups angry. But maybe she could defend herself all the same. “He keeps bothering me.”
“Bothering you?”
“Teasing. Something about my clothes.”
“I see. Ben makes fun of your clothes.” Mr. Boyd folded his arms, as if wondering what else she had to say.
She nodded.
“Do you make fun of him?”
“No.”
“Do you regard Ben as a friend?”
The proper response was surely yes; how could she say Ben would never be her pal without offending Mr. Boyd?
“Well, do you?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so. You sound like you’re not sure.” Mr. Boyd seemed calm, reasonable; she would fess up and see what happened.
“He annoys me.”
“I see. Usually we keep away from folks who annoy us. Maybe you should keep away from Ben.”
“But he follows me around, he bothers me.”
“Some boys are awkward. He means no harm.”
There was a pause.
“What was the name you called him?”
She was very glad she’d suppressed the other name; even so, she was feeling embarrassed.
“You called him a ‘bitch.’” Coming from Mr. Boyd, the word sounded bland, vaguely silly—even more so because it seemingly named her, rather than Ben. “If a person is pestering you, why not call him a pest?” Mr. Boyd gave a vague smile. He was more amused than angry. “Now, you remember what I say.”
Alice made her way through the door. She was exasperated—no one had ever complained to the principal about her before. Though Mr. Boyd was vaguely amused, he would remember her as a girl who’d done something embarrassing and wrong. Mr. Boyd seemed reasonable, but he was enforcing rules in an absurd way. Nearly every day someone called her names like “whitey” or “honky”; but Ben Forman should be carefully, squeamishly labeled a “pest”? All the same, Mr. Boyd was a calm and reasonable man; maybe she should run and tell him whenever someone called her a name. She would become a squealer; and soon enough she and Ben and Mr. Boyd would be pals . . . But how could she inform a black man that someone had called her “honky”? What would he say? Her mother would be no help; she’d never heard the word. No, Mr. Boyd would blame her, he already had. She was alone and would have to make her own way.
Marian
PEACE AND FREEDOM’S Berkeley chapter convened on Tuesday evenings, moving from house to house in South Campus. Marian would finally be meeting some neighbors. The woman she’d spoken with, Sabrina Patterson, had sounded eager and commanding on the phone, as though her name should mean something to the caller, as though she held an important place in the group. Marian had enjoyed the Quakers and Ivy League renegades she’d found in her peace group in Washington. So many had been employed by the federal government, though. She would feel more fellowship among university people. If only she were younger, she could have enrolled in a modern-novel class, maybe something in French. Tom had colleagues; she needed her own group. She would survey the grown-up scene and do something useful during the wrap-up to the murderous 1968 campaign year.
Sabrina’s yard had red flowering trees and an overgrown juniper hedge; there was a hammock on the porch. Bearing homemade bread, her usual offering, Marian pressed the bell. A gong sounded, and the door was opened by a barefoot girl wearing torn jeans, whose cool, assessing glance combined uneasily with her manner—far more comfortable in her body than any thirteen-year-old girl should be. Marian wondered if her own daughter—growing up so freely—would soon be that way.
The girl scampered off wordlessly, as though she’d pigeonholed the guest and found her undeserving of the usual courtesy.
Crossing the foyer, Marian paused in the doorway admiring the living-room bookshelves, much more impressive than her own. Among the books were many objets: wood carvings of women, jewelry made from shells, brass dragons. Someone had anthropological leanings.
The group was large, and so far everyone was white. Marian found that odd, after her Washington circle. There were men and women her age, though of course a few were very young. They were more casual than her Washington peers, the shaggy men in jeans and beards, the women in loose flowing garments
or, if they were young, in jeans and dangling earrings. Surveying them from the door, Marian found the group more comprehensible, less vagrant than the Telegraph crowds—more grown-up couples than newfangled ’49ers here. She was glad she’d worn her sandals and Indian-print dress; if only she had some dangling earrings, she would blend in.
Marian crossed the room, passing a long-legged man slouched on the floor. Leaving her bread on the food board, she found a folding chair near a wine cupboard.
Soon some of the younger men were carving up the bread, joking and passing a marijuana cigarette among themselves. They had the underfed look of young, uncoupled males—even the Party founder, Shel, who had just come in, causing a flurry among the men by the food. Full of energy and command, Shel had charisma and a brand image—black jeans, black jersey, a bomber jacket. Several years younger than Tom, he was dropping references to Cuba, Czechoslovakia, and Cambodia, where he’d reported on the war. She was glad that Tom, who would spar when faced with male competition, had stayed home.
Amused by the marijuana and the eager young men, Marian was planning how she would make a splash, what she would say. They were there for the same reasons, she assumed: the savage war in Vietnam; the assassinations of King and Bobby Kennedy; the bloody Democratic Convention—all had soured them on the two-party system. Johnson had made a damning compromise with the party’s Southern wing, waging war as a payoff for support on civil rights, and Humphrey—Johnson’s vice president, now the Democratic candidate—would pursue the same strategy, if elected. Nixon, the Republican candidate, was pledging “peace with honor,” but no one on the Left could forgive the anti-Communist campaigns he’d waged in the late ’40s and the ’50s. Now that American ground forces were seemingly losing the war, maybe people would come around and support withdrawal. A long and undeclared war, assassinations, urban uprisings—if things continued, the country would become a phony democracy. They’d assumed a reasonably ordered world would always be there, regardless; how foolish they’d been.
A woman about Marian’s age came from the hallway. In a slim dress revealing bare thighs, she was glowing, expansive; she wore long bangs swept back. Though she was white, the impression was of a woman from the era of the Pyramids in sudden and graceful motion. She was followed by a man in Mayan garb who leaned in, whispering something humorous in her ear. Coming forward, the woman found a seat by Marian as the man—presumably her husband—faded through the door. The barefoot teenage girl barged her way through the room just as the woman was calling the gathering to order.
During the pause, she remarked, “You must be Marian.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Sabrina. So glad you’re here—we need volunteers. There’s the campaign, and Huey, and—”
They heard the sound of a door slamming.
“Oh, there goes Helen—my daughter,” Sabrina murmured. Then she rose and commenced reading an agenda. She had easy warmth and aplomb, and the husband had a professor’s manner, regardless of the Mayan garb. Marian assessed them as former Easterners, a good find.
Then Shel rose, removing the bomber jacket and limbering up. There was a hush as he began speaking.
“An American jury has refused freedom for Huey Newton. He remains imprisoned on false charges of manslaughter. Huey’s lawyers are planning an appeal of the case, and Huey needs your support. Dan Dupres is organizing Peace and Freedom’s ‘Free Huey’ defense committee. If you can spare an hour, speak to Dan.”
The long-legged man on the floor waved an arm. He had a rugged jaw, and he wore unlaundered jeans, army boots, a fringy purple vest. He was handsome and flamboyant—more so than Shel. There was applause, and an older woman began circulating a sign-up sheet.
Sabrina leaned in, confiding, “Dan’s new—and very forceful.”
“Now,” Shel resumed, “a few words on the Telegraph uprisings. There was the Bastille Day uprising—some of you were there.”
Marian remembered the day—the mover had demanded news of Telegraph Avenue and then denounced the cops. She’d been dismayed by the man’s words—“gassing the flower people”—and confused by his vehemence. As she glanced around the room, wondering who had been there, she saw Dan nodding proudly.
“And there was Labor Day. All summer, the cops have been bashing heads on Telegraph—in our own South Campus neighborhood. We’re learning what oppression means. For too long we’ve refused to condemn government assaults on our communities. Now we’re seeing how the system works, what they’re capable of. As the Panthers say, the cops occupy our communities like foreign troops. Huey, Che, Ho Chi Minh speak for oppressed people everywhere—black, brown, yellow, and white.”
Marian wondered where the image had come from, for she’d encountered it somewhere in her reading: a black man coming to sudden awareness of himself as a full person, a man among men of all colors—black, brown, yellow, and white—a spokesman, a leader. The image had a humane appeal, a revolutionary flare. Such community was a challenge for the group in the room—a group that was, so far, entirely white. But it was becoming less improbable for the very young. Curt and Alice, who were already learning to be leaders in the change, would do more than she and Tom could; maybe she could learn from them.
Shel was gearing up. “Our movement needs everyone who’s demanding real change. The Panthers’ program has room for every black person in America. No one in North Vietnam is unemployed.”
“They’re doing the people’s work,” Dan murmured.
“Yes, and here’s the problem,” Shel said, nodding. “So far, we’re a group of cerebral souls—philosophers, up-and-coming professors. Longhaired, dope-smoking streetfighters feel unwelcome among us. But if you’ve read Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul on Ice, you know it’s the longhaired streetfighters who are making personal change—and it’s the ones making personal change who are gonna make revolution.”
There were cheers, as a new energy flowed among the younger people. Marian was enjoying a sense of camaraderie.
“The Man has guns and gas—but guns and gas won’t win a war. For that, you need the people.”
Someone gave a war cry.
Marian glanced around the room, feeling a rebel energy that pleased her. Yet she was also leery—she’d been hoping for grown-up peers.
Dan began speaking, commanding the group from the floor.
“I have a proposal, people,” he called out. “Something from the Barb. Something for the Berkeley City Council and its occupying army.”
“Go on, Dan.”
“A plan for our freedom. As things are, we have no land, no space we control, even on Telegraph—I know, because they gassed my jeans shop last summer. So here’s a proposal: South Campus should secede from the gestapo madness of Berkeley, become a people’s town. We can have our own cops, govern ourselves through real democracy. We can choose people rather than cars, parks rather than dorms. Berkeley’s black community can break away at the same time. We vote for their thing and they vote for ours, and Berkeley becomes three towns.” He paused. “Self-government. All power to the people. Black control of the black community. Our control of our community.”
“And what happens to Huey?” Shel demanded. “What happens to the Panther program, when we’re doing our own thing?”
“We need land—space for organizing,” Dan responded.
Marian remembered the Barb cover: “BERKELEY COMMUNE: DON’T TREAD ON ME.” So that’s what they meant. The proposal was whimsical, even funny.
Now Shel began covering some background on the Panthers, headquartered in Oakland. He was professorial, summing up the major themes before moving on. In response to harassment by the cops, as rampant as anything in the South, the Panthers had formed patrols of Oakland’s black community. Whenever the cops were harassing people in the ghetto, the Panthers would show up bearing shotguns. So far, the Oakland and Berkeley cops had responded by provoking armed confrontations with several Panther patrols. Shel regarded the patrols as necessary self-defense of t
he black community.
“Community patrols represent the power of an oppressed people,” he concluded. “They’re freedom fighters for an internal colony.”
“America’s Viet Cong,” Dan muttered.
“And they need support from committed groups within the white community. That’s where we come in,” Shel added, nodding.
Marian was feeling ungrounded. She was aware of the Panthers, though barely. Of course she’d seen the “Free Huey” slogan everywhere and knew the Panther leader had just been found guilty of manslaughter in the death of an Oakland cop. Peace and Freedom was demanding Huey’s release. Yet Marian had read confusing reports of the proceedings in the nearby Oakland courthouse—propaganda by the cops or the defense, depending. Then, on the heels of King’s assassination, another Panther leader, Eldridge Cleaver, had apparently been ambushed by cops—or had ambushed them, though who could really say? The news reports were very conflicting.
Sabrina was leaning closer. “The Panthers have become a symbol, a vanguard,” she was saying in Marian’s ear, “and so of course the cops are gunning for them.”
“Yes, I see. Things are changing,” Marian responded ambiguously.
“That’s why the schools are so important—by changing the young people, we change the system.”
“I agree.” Marian glanced at Sabrina, suppressing rising doubts. What were Curt and Alice—though her group was younger and presumably less aware—hearing from their black peers? And how would she help them understand? Though Marian had been following Huey’s case in the papers, she was unfamiliar with the community patrols. She and Tom had been in Washington when the Panthers had appeared on the Oakland scene over a year before, in May 1967. Now she remembered having been alarmed by images of the group bearing guns into the California State Assembly to block passage of a law banning the carrying of loaded firearms in public. Marian would have preferred a world with fewer guns; but Tom, dry and lawyerly, had responded by running through some Second Amendment arguments. Even so, she hung back: Black Power was surging, and the Panthers, though aligned with Peace and Freedom, certainly had a Black Power image. They reminded her of H. Rap Brown, who’d urged black people to burn a Maryland elementary school. She’d been repelled, but was the anger so surprising? In Virginia, whole counties had closed schools rather than desegregate. Though she’d support Peace and Freedom for its general platform opposing war, and though she’d support the Civil Rights Movement as long as desegregation was the goal, she feared what would come of more armed confrontations.