Black & White

Black & White

Leigh Allen

ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-54399-217-5

ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-54399-218-2

© 2019. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Cover Image by Rowan

This book is dedicated to all those who have stood up, protested, sat in, and marched for equality and are protesting, sitting in, and marching today. Some participating by small acts of civil disobedience and some paying the ultimate price in the fight against bigotry and racism, all deserve our support and gratitude.

This novel is partly autobiographical. While some events and places in the novel are real, all characters are the product of the authors imagination. Any similarity to living or deceased persons is coincidental.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

December 5, 1955

MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP)

A court test of segregated transportation loomed today following the arrest of a Negro who refused to move to the colored section of a city bus.

While thousands of other Negroes boycotted Montgomery city lines in protest, Mrs. Rosa Parks was fined $14 in Police Court today for having disregarded last Thursday a driver’s order to move to the rear of a bus. Negro passengers ride in the rear of buses here, white passengers in front under a municipal segregation ordinance.

July 1957 – South Station – Boston, MA

Chapter 1

Watch where you’re going kid.

Sorry mister. My words, a mere whisper swept away by the stream of humanity flowing around me, were delivered to the disappearing back of the guy I bumped. I’m sure he didn’t hear me, probably didn’t care.

Like an ash from one of his cigars, my old man flicked me to the curb in front of Boston’s South Station. I watched from the top of the steps as our little Rambler melded into city traffic in a cloud of blue smoke. Mom was okay with this trip. Dad didn’t want me to go. But would it have killed them to come in and see me to my bus?

Never been more alone. No, not true. Been by myself in the deep woods back home totally out of touch with the sights and sounds of civilization. But I wasn’t anywhere near as panicked as in this swirling chaos. Where was my group?

I can’t do this. Can’t even look around without banging into someone. What would I do if the bus left already?

Breathe! Can’t worry about what ifs. The big clock high up on the marbled columned wall streaked toward two, our departure time. Move!

At the far end of a long line of parked buses, the sway and snap of a long auburn ponytail caught my attention. I knew that pony tail, could spot it a mile away. Margaret Jean Fox, a goddess in a sparkling white blouse over navy slacks separated from a small bunch of kids and hurried toward me, waving as she drew closer.

I melted both inside and out. My shoulders drooped so much my suitcase scraped the floor.

Face and arms tanned from a summer in the sun, the light bronze color almost, but not quite, covered the sprinkling of freckles right below her eyes. My internal boilers started chugging, and a warm glow replaced the twists of fear in my gut. Tired of being just friends, I dreamed of something more. I had seven whole days with her at our Liberal Religious Youth Convention in North Carolina—couldn’t believe my luck. Plenty of time to make my feelings known, except...

A tall, athletic guy peeled off from the group and followed her in her footsteps. His forearms had knots of muscle that led up to bulging biceps threatening to burst the sleeves of his tee. Who the hell was he?

A god damned giant. Towered over everyone else—broad shoulders, skin the color of black coffee. His eyes riveted on me. A scowl plowed deep furrows across his forehead that reflected the harsh lighting in lines of black, bronze and white. A tiger on the prowl. Why did every guy bigger than me want to pick a fight? At five-foot-seven, one hundred and twenty-nine pounds, I’d had my share. What was this guy’s problem?

The voice of Kenji Tanaka the instructor from my eight- week judo class counseled, Fear is your real enemy. It clouds your mind. Respect your opponent, do not fear him.

Tanaka put on the free clinic for my Boy Scout troop. Eight weeks of training, long on philosophy and short on actual moves, a set up guaranteed to generate interest in his formal classes. Caught my attention, but we couldn’t afford the tuition. Eight weeks was all I would get.

But Tanaka’s advice crept through my memory, like pebbles in your shoe. Never sure when they would pop up, but when they did, annoying. Didn’t understand some of it right away, but this gem was crystal clear. I had respect all right, respect that this clown would mop the floor with me if he decided to. Had to find some way to get M J alone or this was going to be a long ride to North Carolina.

Wonder if he’s going to have to ride in the back of the bus down there? Can it, Hansen. Shouldn’t be thinking those thoughts. After all the objective of this conference is to show how kids of all colors could work together in harmony. Grow up.

When we set the location for this year’s convention, things had quieted down in the South. King’s Montgomery bus strike was still on-going but the press was eerily silent on the that topic and the Rosa Parks incident. I wasn’t sure that was a good thing. Still our southern representatives assured us that we could hold our racially integrated conference in Greensboro without problems. The Unitarian Church, the controlling body of our youth group, the L. R. Y., gave us permission, but issued a stern warning: Be careful and don’t make waves. What the hell did that mean? When this group came together for one of our conferences, turmoil was guaranteed. Our presence was a wave. I didn’t know much about the South, never been there, but how bad could it be? We’d be isolated on he campus of Guilford College, a private Quaker school in Greensboro.

Delivered with a big smile MJ’s first words were scolding. Nobody called her by any other name. Margaret, or Maggy would net you a hard punch in the arm. I’d sported a few bruises from fooling around. Where have you been? We began to think you weren’t coming. Reverend Hayes phoned your house. She fanned the air in front of her wrinkled nose. Phew, you stink like you just came from Phys-Ed class.

My shoulders sank and I tore my eyes from her face, dropped my gaze to the dirty marble floor. My plan for us fizzled out before the starting gun went off. I laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in it. My father doesn’t believe in air conditioning or opening the windows on the highway. Got stuck in the back seat. Baked the whole way in here. Sorry. Have to change my shirt.

Shirt? A shower is what you need. But hey, cheer up by the end of this ride we’re all going to smell the same. So, come here. MJ opened her arms and moved in for a hug.

I hesitated a fraction of a second, scared she’d be repulsed, scared of what our tall audience would think, but I put my suitcase down and hugged her back. The same height, we made a perfect fit, cheek to cheek, our bodies molded together as the scent of flowers from her cologne covered my B.O. Been here before and wanted more—wanted something special between us. Should I tell her now? No, not the time or place, dummy. And this colored kid playing some kind of chaperone makes it difficult to say anything. MJ and I would be together for a whole week. Plenty of time to convince her we should build on what we had.

The tall kid stood right behind MJ, almost touching, his emerald green eyes glowing from some internal fire. Cat eyes. If he is going on this trip with us, he had balls, give him that. Not sure I would do it. Things weren’t perfect for Negros in Massachusetts, but I hadn’t heard of anyone getting arrested for sitting in the front of the bus.

A shadow of anger clouded his face as MJ and I hugged. She didn’t seem to notice he was there. Does he have a problem with me or is he somehow attached to her?

MJ released the hug, but I didn’t. Wanted to hold on forever. I whispered in her ear, Don’t look now, but you have a tail.

She pushed away and broke the spell, bumping into the colored kid when she spun around. A pinkish color flooded her bronzed face. Oh—ah—God, Lester. Surprised me. This is Donnie Hansen, the guy I told you about earlier. Donnie, this is Lester Boyd.

I studied MJ’s face. Her voice halting, her forehead moist—not like her at all. I flicked back to Lester. A sour taste rolled around the back of my mouth. Something about this guy bugged the hell out of me. Stuck out my hand. Good to meet you.

Nothing good about this meeting at all. Lester pulled himself up to his full height and looked down on both of us, his arms crossed over his chest, hands hidden in armpits like some sort of god about to pass judgment on his misbehaving subjects. No question, he had a problem. Reverse discrimination? Learned about that at one of our youth group meetings. What did our Pastor say? Couldn’t remember, couldn’t think. Didn’t matter. If this kid disliked whites it sure didn’t extend to MJ. I let my hand fall. Am I doing something wrong? Doesn’t he shake hands—with white people?

Living in lily-white Haverford, Massachusetts, I hadn’t met any folks of color except Rev. Hayes and his wife. I suppose Pastor Tom, as all the kids called him, got a free pass because he was a minister, but he and his family were not welcomed by the general community. Coloreds weren’t usually allowed to live in town nor work at the local plant. I wondered if Pastor Tom ever regretted accepting the offer to fill our need for a minister.

I was the youth representative on the selection committee and when coaxed by the adults, I spoke up for him. It was easy, He was smart, outgoing, cool, and had an interest in young people—a natural for our church except for his skin color.

To my surprise, a majority voted in favor. Other than me, the committee concerns all centered around the race issue. Wouldn’t be right to bring a negro into Haverford. Elliot Strongman, treasurer of Corwan Manufacturing, the local plant, and member of the committee had some harsh words for us all after the vote. I overheard two of the women worrying about the effect their actions might have on their plant employed husbands. Their comments made me concerned about my dad’s job. What had we done?

Strongman downplayed the few contributions I made in meetings as just the kid’s words. He’d never admit I had any influence on the outcome of the vote. Maybe Dad’s job was safe.

A great preacher, Pastor Tom filled the pews every Sunday. However, his influence never ranged beyond the walls of the church building. He focused his whole attention on the church and the young people of the congregation. Our youth group met every Sunday evening, a haven of free thought and open expression of ideas. Under his guidance attendance grew. Everyone was welcome. We even had a couple of Catholics sneaking in every week.

I sensed from comments he made in our discussions that he was frustrated by his lack of influence beyond the church walls. His own kids were a sensitive subject. We got to see them around holidays, but most of the year they were away at private schools or summer camps. We never got to really know them, and Pastor Tom shifted the subject whenever we brought them up. Would have thought they would have been interested in the youth group, but they never showed up. It was a closed subject.

MJ filled the awkward silence. Lester here is All Boston and All State in basketball. His team won the New England championship this past season. He’s a star. You play ball don’t you Donnie?

Wow, bad miscue for her. I never was into sports or sports heroes. To be honest I didn’t have any real talent. Yeah, I put my time in on our school squad because being on a team beefed up my college resume. The shortest kid on the team and having no real abilities on the court, I gathered butt splinters most games.

I nodded. Lester’s star status explained MJ’s interest. An athlete herself and on several of the teams at her school, she played first string varsity on them all. What could I say? Nothing, dummy.

Lester spoke for the first time. A deep, manly voice rumbled out, What team?

I lowered mine an octave. Haverford High.

He sniffed. Ain’t never heard of it.

Where did this guy come off putting me and my school down? While I held no great loyalty to Haverford High, he had no right. My rejected hand curled into a fist. Wrestling my ego down, I shrugged. Not surprised. Small school in central Mass. Not in the same league with you guys.

Lester leaned back a bit and stared down the length of his nose. Ain’t that the truth? Maybe we should shoot some hoops sometime this week. A smirk spread across his face.

Smug bastard. I kept it together for MJ’s benefit and well—this guy kind of scared me. Why not?

No, the real question—why? Makes no sense. He’ll humiliate me. With all the stuff I had to do at the conference, throwing a ball through a basket fell to last place on my list. Why bother? Wait a minute—a put-down. He wants to best me in front of MJ.

I could tell by how she gazed up at him and how he glanced at her that there was something going on between them. They had sports in common but something else there. Jeeze, they’d just met. She knew me for years.

Pastor Tom ran up. Donnie, you need to put your suitcase on board. He nodded toward the driver loading bags in the luggage compartment. You’re late.

Sorry. My father got turned around in the city, so it took some time to find this place.

By the way, where are your parents?

Dad didn’t want to spend money to park the car. They dropped me off out front.

Pastor Tom frowned and shook his head. Okay, at least you’re here.

Is there time for me to put on a dry shirt?

No. Grab something and change on the bus. He scurried off to coral a couple of kids wandering back into the main terminal.

I followed Lester and MJ to the bus—definitely a third wheel. He hung by her shoulder. She didn’t seem to mind the closeness, bumping into him as they walked. Something between those two for sure. He turned a couple of times and scowled down at me. Pure hate spilled out of those cat’s eyes. Guess he felt the same as I did about him. Couldn’t stand the sight of him.

MJ turned to say something to me. Lester bumped her back toward the bus. The man says we got to get on board.

But…

We gotta move. He can take care of himself.

He herded MJ toward the open door of the bus. She didn’t resist. What the hell? My whole plan for MJ crumbled. The week would be long and painful if I didn’t find some way to steal her away from that—that—N . . . Caught myself. Almost went there. Almost called Lester something bad, a name Pastor advised us never to use.

But I thought it. Did anyone notice? I glanced around. Pastor and Mrs. Hayes waved kids onto the bus. Did thinking the term make me racist? Didn’t like this kid. He stole MJ. But was that all?

Chapter 2

By the time I convinced the driver to let me grab a dry shirt, everyone else was on board. Our group crammed to the front, the back two thirds of the bus, empty. Neatly stacked heads two by two on either side of the aisle—animated talking eggs in a carton. A buzz of conversation filled the space. We seemed to be the only people here. Strange—this was a Boston to New York run. No matter, I knew where I needed to go. Alone in the back suited me fine.

MJ and Boyd sat several rows back—she at the window, silent and unmoving, he on the aisle adding his part to the noise. Whatever he said had to be serious—not a smile between them.

MJ’s attention flicked in my direction. The vibrant, sunshiny girl who greeted me minutes before, gone. Blank eyes, dead-like—scared me. Not my MJ. What is going on? If he’s hurting her I.... Can it stupid. What the hell could I possible do to him?

Boyd snapped around and glared at me for a second. Said something to her and she focused on his face like she was hypnotized—so unlike her. What kind of power did he have over her? Doesn’t matter, I need to forget about it. She made her decision.

I recognized a few of the other kids from the national conference held in New Hampshire two years ago. Missed last year’s in San Francisco—too expensive. And in Dad’s eyes, New Hampshire was an acceptable destination, so he allowed me to attend. North Carolina was not a suitable place for a bunch of kids according to him. Strong opinion for someone who never ventured outside of New England except for his time in the army. He turned me down when I first asked for permission. Kind of funny that the point that swayed him in the end was his fear of a visit from Pastor Tom to convince him to let me go. No colored minister would set foot in our house. Kind of understood. If Pastor Tom showed up on our doorstep, Dad would have hell to pay at the plant. What I didn’t understand was his willingness to buy into the all-white concept for the town and company. I certainly couldn’t agree with the—well, the racism in town, but he was my father. Had to respect him, didn’t I? In the end it was Dad’s fear of being branded socially that caused him to give me permission to go.

The current president of our organization, Kirk Whitaker, occupied the last filled seats with a girl I recognized, but didn’t know her name. Making his move early, he always found a girl to be with. I envied him. He was one smooth character.

Kirk and I worked together at council meetings and we made a strong team despite our many differences. Next fall he was a senior at Williams College, while I was entering my last year in high school in the fall. His father, a lawyer and a Massachusetts State Senator—mine a plant laborer. Kirk’s home in Manchester-by-the-Sea, north of Boston, a fourteen-room mansion—mine in Haverford, a company owned duplex. The only two things we had in common were our interest in the LRY and the fact we were both thirds. He, Kirkland Whitaker III, but I was Donnie Three Sticks.

Rolled up my clean T-shirt and took off for the bathroom in the rear to change. A jeans clad leg shot out blocking my way—Boyd. A smirk plastered his face. I raised a leg to step over. He lifted his high-top Converse court shoe to the arm rest of the seat on the opposite side of the aisle.

Shit, shit, shit. Grade school again. I had worked hard to get away from, get around, get rid of the bullies all through school. Now, I’m back there again. Never had this problem at any of the other conferences I attended. Why now?

Conversation dwindled around us. I sucked a breath and counted to ten. Never worked for me, didn’t now. Sweaty, miserable, and pissed at his stealing MJ away, I didn’t need this. Why would he do this shit?

MJ tugged on Boyd’s arm. Lester, come on. Stop. They’ll kick you off the trip.

What about it, White-Bread? Think they’ll kick me off? Look around. I’m the only Negro kid on this here all-whitey tour. Dump me, how’s it going to set with those big conference goals they keep tellin’ me about?

Never heard the term White-Bread used like that. The name stung, the meaning clear. Racist, with no place on this bus.

The voice of Kenji Tanaka broke in again, Do not be provoked.

The sneaker moved up and down daring me to try to pass. Pressure built. Impossible not to be pissed. Clear now what Mr. Tanaka meant by losing face if your enemy got to you. Mine eroded by the second in the eyes of everyone around including my own. Couldn’t react even if I knew what to do—too much at stake. So much for Judo training.

I shot a glance back down the aisle toward Pastor Tom. Maybe I should get him involved. Yeah, sure, right back in third grade, Hansen. Run to the teacher. Deal with this or you’ll come off as a crybaby.

The safety valve keeping my temper in check, released. The words hissed out of my mouth like escaping steam. Get bent, Boyd. If you think this stupid prank fits in with the conference goals, you’re pretty far off the mark. Being a—ah—dark skinned doesn’t mean you’re needed. Frankly, your attitude is a drag and this trip would be a lot better without a n…. Almost slipped again, almost used the word. Should have, would serve him right. White-Bread sounded as ugly the way Boyd spat out the term.

The whole speech came out much louder than I expected and the engine dropped from the original roar to an idle right in the middle.

Eyes wide, MJ covered her mouth with a hand. My words hit home.

The bus began to back out of the parking slot. Boyd pulled himself up. Did he think we should fight right here? This asshole will get us both sent home.

The driver slammed on the brakes and Lester fell back into his seat. My momentum slung me back another two rows before I grabbed a seat back and spun around. Did he follow? No Converse high tops, no jeans, no Boyd. He hunkered down, his head almost in his lap.

Farther forward, Pastor Tom hung by one hand from the luggage rack. He almost face-planted on the deck. Boyd must have seen him coming. The villain in this little scene would be me. What a great way to start my week.

A crackly voice came through the intercom speakers. Will everyone please take a seat.

I forced a smile and waved to Pastor Tom. MJ glanced over but turned away as soon as our eyes met. So much for working on our relationship this week. If I ever had a chance, it was long gone. I slunk to the back.

Kirk caught my arm as I passed, taking in my drenched Tee. What did you do? Run all the way from home?

Not quite but might as well have.

We need to talk.

What about? Not what just happened, I hope.

No. Conference stuff, but you can clue me in as to what your little confrontation was about.

Held up my T. Give me a few minutes to change.

I plopped into a seat opposite the bathroom, opened all the vents and let the chilled air wash over me. Hoity-toity, according to my dad, but the breeze sure helped cool me down both inside and out.

We accelerated out into hazy Boston sunshine. Better wait until we hit the open road before risking getting bounced around in the can. My BO won’t bother anyone back here, and I hoped I wouldn’t be bothered by any of them. From some of the stares I got, my speech didn’t win me many friends. All State basketball hero? Bullshit. Hated celebrities like Boyd, so full of themselves. They all think they can push everybody around. I never was a hero. Probably never will be. But am I White-Bread?

We jerked through the streets, braking, accelerating, and turning. The people walking the sidewalks took my mind off the idiot up front. More than one trudged along hands or newspapers held to eyebrows to shade against a vicious sun. Had to be hot out there.

Cars passed by, horns blared—mostly yellow taxis. Everyone rushed to be someplace else. Someplace else? That same desire now pulsed through me. Didn’t know where I wanted to go, but I sure didn’t want to be here. The excitement for the week floated away like a bright balloon with letters reading, MJ.

Shut my eyes and sulked for a while. Suck it up, Hansen. You have a whole week to slog through.

The Business Committee would keep me plenty busy. Work never stopped right up until the last session, and I had two workshops to lead.

Oh