He grew up in a neighborhood composed of Italians and Jews. He had little interaction with people of color.

 

Then something happened that changed his world. He found himself involved in . . .

 

 

A Case Of Black

 

     “Oh, hell! I’m running late for school again,” he screamed. “Where’s my essay on segregation? I thought I left it on the kitchen table last night.”

     “It’s right where you put it, Tony,” Mom said, in a sarcastic manner.

     “Okay, okay. I found it.”

     He grabbed the glass of OJ she left on the table for him and glanced at the first sentence of his essay. He slurped the juice and read aloud from his paper at the same time.

     “The year is 1962. Segregation and racial tension are not confined to the South, although many of us in the North live our lives isolated from these issues. My knowledge on the subject doesn’t come from experience, but from my U.S. History class and newspaper and television coverage.

     “I’m a high school senior who will graduate from Emerson High School in less than two months, on Friday, June 18. Emerson is an all-white public high school on Long Island, twenty miles from New York City. As a student at the school, in a middle class suburb, I’ve been insulated from the tension associated with integration efforts taking place in other towns and cities throughout the country. My only experience with black America occurred a year ago when I competed in a track meet against Benfield High School—the one integrated high school in our school district.”

     “Tony, get a move on,” Dad yelled, interrupting his discourse. “You’re going to be late for school.”

     “Yeah, I’m coming.” He jammed his essay into his school folder, gathered up his books, and hurried out to the car. “Tony Lombardi will make history today with his great exposé on racial tension and segregation,” he chanted as he ran. He jumped into the family’s ’58 Chevy Impala and slammed the door. Dad stepped on the gas pedal and they took off.

     He looked out the window as they drove the three miles to Emerson. The day was sunny and warm. Everything seemed to sparkle. Dad stopped the car at the curb at the front of the school. Tony grabbed his books and school folder, opened the door, and hopped out.

     “Bye, Dad. See you tonight.”

     “Have a great day, Tony.”

     He shut the car door and headed toward the school’s main entrance. As he plodded along the walkway, a bright light blinded him. “What the . . .” he muttered.

     His eyes followed the reflection. They focused on the silver handle of a black attaché case that cast a radiant glow. The brilliance framed the back of the man who clutched the handle of the case, as if to squeeze the life from it.

     He stared at the large, dark left hand of this statuesque figure. He didn’t see a ring. Must be single, he thought. A simple gold watch rested on the man’s wrist. It wouldn’t have caught his attention had his eyes not been drawn to the handle of the case. 

     The stranger pressed his left arm, the one holding the case, close to his massive frame. His size made Tony think he might have been a football player. He wore a brown and tan striped, light cotton sport coat, quite appropriate for the warm spring day. His neck seemed to disappear within the collar of the jacket, causing Tony to focus on the back of his head. His hair, close cropped and jet-black, appeared dull in comparison to the aura surrounding him.

     Tony watched the majestic stranger, as he marched with military precision toward the main entrance of the school. He lifted his right hand and pulled the handle of the large glass door toward him. Tony, with his books tucked under his arm and his school folder in hand, followed him into the building.

     “Hey, Tony,” Mike Clark shouted from the other side of the hallway.

     “Not now,” Tony responded. “I’m in a hurry.”

     As the man disappeared down the corridor, Tony picked up his pace so not to lose him. His precise manner piqued Tony’s curiosity. He had seen his back and a bit of his left side, but not his face. He wondered what the man looked like. Who is this person and what is he doing here? he thought.

     As he caught up to this imposing gentleman, he could see him walking toward a classroom at the end of the corridor. His movements appeared to become a bit strained as he proceeded with some trepidation. He opened the classroom door and entered.

     Tony followed behind him and, to his amazement, realized he was in his first period English classroom. Not wanting to appear conspicuous, he went straight from the door to his desk in the third row and sat down. The man now stood in front of the teacher’s desk, facing toward the blackboard.

     As Tony settled into his chair and awaited the arrival of the rest of the class, his eyes focused on the black case the imposing figure placed to his right on the large, blonde wood desk in front of him. The man lifted the top of the case and removed a white writing tablet from it. The contrast was quite striking—the bright, white tablet and the jet-black case. The man still had his back to Tony. Tony longed to see his face.  

     Boisterous seniors, Tony’s fellow students, entered the classroom and filed through the rows of desks to their seats. His close friend Barry paused at his desk. “What are you staring at?” he asked.

     “The guy at the front of the room,” Tony replied.

     Barry turned to look. The other students, now seated, eyed the man, too. A hush permeated the classroom. The eerie silence lasted but a moment, as the clang of the bell indicated the start of the school day.

     Tony opened his notebook and wrote the date, April 24,1962, at the top of the page. Then his eyes moved from the book and became fixed on the large figure poised in front of the room. The man turned toward the class and smiled. His face was bright and reflected a sense of enthusiasm. He now seemed relaxed and projected a warm demeanor, as he spoke.

     “Your teacher, Mr. Robbins, is ill today. I’m Mr. Jackson, your substitute. Mr. Robbins’s lesson plan for the day centers on the essays he assigned you to write. He asked me to have you read them aloud to the class. While I agree with this approach, I’m going to change his strategy a bit. As such, please give your essays to me at this time. Then I will pass them out so each of you gets someone else’s paper. After you have read the paper you were given to the class, we will discuss its contents and I will ask you to identify which classmate wrote the particular essay read.”

     Nobody uttered a sound in response to Mr. Jackson’s statement or raised a hand to question him about the process outlined. Captivated by his words and energy, the students’ eyes focused on him in anticipation of an activity they all found quite appealing.

     However, before the exercise could begin, Tony became distracted. Sunlight streaming through the classroom window fell upon the open black case’s silver handle reproducing the radiance he’d witnessed earlier. But then this luminescence, which surrounded the case, traveled to the students’ white, smiling faces, producing a glow so bright, the contrast of colors in the room disappeared. The black figure, poised in front of the classroom, blended into the white group he faced, as he distributed the essays to the class.

     Later, after the exercise, as Mr. Jackson dismissed the class, the students smiled and chatted as they exited the classroom. Their unmistakable enthusiasm flowed through the corridors of the school. The following year, as school opened in the fall, a new group of students marched down the corridor and entered “Mr. Jackson’s first period English class,” and nobody thought, Who is this person and what is he doing here?

 

 

Copyright © 2009 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.