Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (29 page)

CHAPTER 32
 

Brooklyn College was located on Avenue H in Flatbush, the heart of Kings County. Its impressive campus of trimmed lawns, surrounded by neo-Georgian red-brick buildings, lent an aura of another place and time, while its perpetual social problems made it very much a place of its time. From its inception in 1937, the campus had been regarded as a hotbed of left-wing ideology, earning it the nickname of the “little red schoolhouse” from its critics. By the late sixties, it had become a center for political and racial upheaval, marked by protests against the Vietnam War, and demonstrations by minority students demanding open admissions.

Joshua’s first day was devoted to registration and orientation. There was a large meeting in the assembly hall, at which the dean and other officials gave speeches about registration procedures, college rules, activities, etcetera. Afterward, Joshua was confronted with the task of filling out forms and choosing classes. Much of this was simple. There was a list of required courses for freshmen, which took up most of his schedule and left room for only one elective. The instructions were to pick an elective from one’s “major.” There came the dilemma.

Joshua sat, pondering the list of potential majors, while the room emptied out. When he realized that he was one of the only students remaining, he forced himself to decide. He stared, once more, at the dotted line, and filled in “pre-law.”
What
the
hell
.

The first recommended course for pre-law majors, he noted, was
Introduction
to
Political
Science
. He got up to hand in his forms.

The line, which had been quite long just fifteen minutes earlier, had dwindled to three, including him. He approached the desk with his papers, and a tired looking black woman extended her hand to take them without even looking at him. She examined the forms, and flipped through some other papers as she entered his name for various classes. It seemed to be going smoothly, until she looked up at him, and said, “Sorry, poli-sci is full.”

“Full?” he asked, not quite knowing what she meant.

“Full. You’ll have to pick something else.”

“What else?”

“How do I know?” Chafing.

“But I’m a pre-law major, and that’s the first pre-law class.”

“But it’s full.”

He looked at his list of classes again, and chose the one that came after
Introduction
to
Political
Science
. “How about political science-two?”

“No can do, you need the introduction course first.”

“But it’s closed.”

“That’s true.”

He went to the next course on the list. “How about U.S. Constitution-one?”

“Need the poli-sci courses first.”

He was getting the hang of this. He looked down the list one last time, searching for a course without a prerequisite. There had to be one. Finally, a title struck him,
Introduction
to
Ethnic
Studies
. Without speaking, he showed her the list with his finger pointed to it.

Her expression was disdainful, as if she didn’t approve. He returned a hearty smile—
who
gives
a
fuck
what
you
think
? She returned to her rosters, found the class, and entered his name.

He walked away, wondering why she’d been so rude. Here he was, finally entering college, an adult, at the gateway to the civilized world, and getting mistreated. By a black person, no less. It had been naive of him to think that blacks supported one another in the white world. Now he knew otherwise. He wondered what other lessons awaited.

His name was Alvin Thompson, and he was a full professor in the department of Ethnic Studies. He was black; in fact, the only black teacher Joshua had. He was about five-ten, of average build, and good looking. To Joshua’s eye, he could have passed as a double for Sidney Poitier.

In temperament, however, Professor Thompson couldn’t be compared with anyone. He was reputed as a firebrand, extremely acrimonious, with no concern for what others thought of him. A proud son of the ghetto. Self-anointed messenger of truth.

On first impression, Joshua thought he was okay. He appeared to be a gentleman, impeccably groomed—conservative, brown, plaid suit; starched white-collared shirt; carmine bowtie; maroon hush puppies. And he was remarkably eloquent, not a trace of “street-talk.”

He had quite a following, standing room only, flowing into the hallway. Joshua was surprised at that, considering the ease with which he was able to register for the class. But then he realized that most of the audience weren’t students at the college. They were Thompson’s disciples from outside.

The sole subject of the class ended up being the endless subjugation of blacks in America, and the ways—a’ la Thompson—to change that. One of the first things Joshua learned was never to argue with Thompson. He had tried once, during a lecture in which Thompson was going on about living conditions in urban America, and the white man’s effort to deluge black neighborhoods with drugs.

“But that’s not completely true,” Joshua heard himself say, not believing that the words had actually left his mouth.

Thompson looked around the room. “Do I hear a voice of dissension?”

All eyes turned to Joshua.

“Well?” Thompson asked, looking directly at the culprit.

Joshua trembled, wishing for a trap door in the floor.

“Did you have something to add?”

“No, not really.” Sheepish. “I was just saying that I don’t think that all the drugs in black neighborhoods come from white folks. I think things are more complicated than that.”

“Ah, I see.” The professor scratched his chin. “
You
think things
are
more complicated than that. Well, why don’t you tell us what you mean, Mr… .”

“Eubanks, sir. Joshua Eubanks.”

“Okay, Mr. Eubanks, why don’t you share some of these ‘complications’ with us.”

Joshua didn’t think it wise to bare his expertise on the subject. “I’d rather not, sir.”

“You’d rather not.” Thompson looked around the silent room. “Is that because you really don’t know what you’re talking about, or because you don’t want us to know how much you
do
know?” The crowd chuckled.

Joshua kept silent.

“Well?”

Still silent, Joshua was aware he was letting Thompson intimidate him. He was angry with himself for getting into this position.

“It seems you don’t know anything.” More laughter. “Well, Mr. Eubanks, in this class we have a rule. It’s simple. If you don’t know, don’t say.” He looked out at the audience, as if this were a warning to them as well. Then, he turned back to Joshua. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Thompson continued on, his followers spellbound, until he’d gone about twenty minutes overtime. Joshua had heard that this was typical, and surmised it was also intentional—the professor must have enjoyed having his students arrive late for their other classes, for it made him feel more important.

As the classroom emptied, Joshua heard his name called. He turned, and saw Thompson looking directly at him, beckoning “come hither” with his forefinger. Joshua swallowed hard, and hobbled over.

As soon as Thompson and Joshua were the only ones remaining in the room, Thompson looked at the cane in Joshua’s hand, then into his eyes, and said, “Tell me, Mr. Eubanks, why did you give up so easily?”

“I realized I had made a mistake.”

“A
mistake
? And what might that mistake be?”

“I shouldn’t have contradicted you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t my place.”

“That’s good, Mr. Eubanks. Every
Negro
should know his place, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Mr. Eubanks. Every Negro should know his place, shouldn’t he?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand…”

“Of course you don’t, Mr. Eubanks, but I bet you’re good and angry right about now, huh?”

“Yes sir,” Joshua answered, knowing he wasn’t sounding nearly as peeved as he felt.

“Then good. You should be angry, because you behaved like a scared little Negro, or would you prefer
boy
.”

Joshua was dumb-struck.

“Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Eubanks. Next time, if you want to be a scared little Negro, then keep your mouth shut from the start. That’s the way it’s done. But, if by any chance, you desire to grow up and become a man, then
never
let
anybody
intimidate you. And
that
includes
me
!” He stood in Joshua’s face. “Next time you have something to say in my class, you say it! Otherwise, I’ll be sure to fail you.”

“Yes sir.”

Thompson turned away, waving Joshua out of his presence.

Joshua obeyed, left the room, and walked down the hallway perplexed. He loathed Thompson, no doubt, but also realized that the professor did indeed have a thing or two to teach him.

Joshua stood on the Brighton Beach boardwalk, leaning over the railing, looking at the ocean, wondering why Rachel had sounded so desperate on the phone, and why she had insisted on meeting him here. She was late, giving him time to ponder the waves breaking on the sand.

It was an early autumn day, a mite too chilly for the beach. Two teenaged lovers strolled along the edge of the water, and a sanitation worker was combing the area for debris; otherwise, the place was empty. The sky was clear, and the view extended to the horizon.

Joshua had a vague recollection of his mother taking him to the beach as a child, but wasn’t sure if it had been Coney Island or Manhattan Beach. He was certain it hadn’t been here. This wasn’t a place black people frequented.

The boardwalk was quiet. A few pedestrians meandered back and forth. There was a row of food concessions, most of which were closed. He had walked there from the train, and had passed through streets with large apartment buildings, and an impressive commercial district beneath the El. He had seen only white faces, mostly elderly, and—he assumed—Jewish. He remembered that the Eisenmans, the couple that had lived next door to him, had recently moved to this area. Mrs. Eisenman had told him that they wanted to be with people their own age, but he had known the real reason. White people, except for the Lubavitchers, were disappearing from his neighborhood rather quickly these days.

The Eisenmans had even given him and his mother their new address, and had encouraged them to visit. He had always liked the Eisenmans, and had been thinking of perhaps dropping in on them. He reached into his pocket and removed the crumpled paper on which he had written their address earlier that morning, and stared at it. He didn’t know why, but he eventually released his grasp and let it fly away.

It was then that she tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, and his heart fell. Fifteen months, and she hadn’t changed a bit.

“Hi,” she said. “Sorry I’m late, the train was slow.”

“It happens.”

“How
are
you?”

Joshua knew that this was one of those rare times in his life when that question was genuine. “Pretty good, and you?”

She shrugged.

“Come,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder, “let’s walk.”

She walked beside him, allowing him to hold her. This far from Crown Heights, she seemed comfortable no one would recognize her. Joshua realized that was why she had chosen this place.

They sauntered along the boardwalk in silence for a few minutes, then she stopped, turned to him, and began to cry. “Oh Joshua, I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?”

“About Binny. And me.” Hesitant.

“What about Binny and you?”

“We’re having a problem, a big problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Look at me.” She stepped back and postured herself.

“Yes?”
God,
she’s
gorgeous
.

“Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

“Joshua,
look
at
me
!” She put both her hands on her stomach.