A Shade of Difference (108 page)

“I want you to look,” he cried with a sudden, rising anger as a sullen muttering of protest again broke out on the floor, “I want you to look at what can happen when a man tries to be all those decent things that the delegate of Guinea is not. Yes, I want you to look! Yes,” he shouted as the protests mounted to a renewed chorus of booing, “I want you to look at me and see what you think of it. You looked at my friend, that big old pretty Terry, when he came here the other day in his dirty diapers and showed them to you!” (“My
God,”
said the London
Daily Express.
“Here’s fun!”) “Now you look at
me,
all you loud talkers who know so much about my country. Maybe you don’t think anybody cares about the racial situation in the United States. You’d better think again. Somebody cared enough to beat me up. I cared enough to do what I did in the Congress, and what I’m doing here right now. I tell you, smart boys,
we
care, and we know a lot more about it than you do, I can tell you that!”

There was a great roar of boos, but, encouraging to him and sending the excitement in the hall to even greater pitch, there met it this time a thunder of approval and applause.

“Now, Mr. President,” he said when both abated, “the delegate of Guinea, who knows so much, weeps and moans about what is going on in the United States about race. Does he know what the situation was thirty years ago? Does he know how much it’s improved today? Sure! It’s easy to pick out bad places and beat your breast about them, and
I’m not saying
that my country is perfect. But I am saying that my country has made great strides and that she’ll continue to make great strides. And without a lot of black busybodies running around here pretending to talk like statesmen and acting like fools.”

“Wow
eee!”
Lafe said softly in the delegation as the boos began. “I don’t know, Cullee, boy. Maybe you’d better take it easy, chum.”

“He’s all right,” Hal said, through the screen of pain that was gradually becoming more intense, creeping and creeping over his body, clouding the world. “He’s okay. It’s meet fire with fire, now, I guess.”

“I guess,” Lafe said, though doubtfully.

“Mr. President, the fine delegate of Guinea who knows so much about my country makes a lot of stuff because the President of the United States and the Secretary of State did honor to Senator Cooley. I honor him myself. He was a friend of mine! Yes, he was!” he said, as the sound of protest rose again from the floor. “I didn’t agree with him and he didn’t agree with me. I think he was wrong in what he always believed on race and in what he set out to do to my resolution in Congress. But at least he was a man. He fought in the open. He wasn’t”—and a scathing sarcasm entered his voice— “some sneaking little jackal running around snapping at the heels of the United States. He believed what he believed, and I believed what I believed, and we set out to beat each other if we could.

“Well, I won, thanks to my colleagues in the Congress, and he lost. But we respected each other as human beings, and it didn’t make any difference how we disagreed; at least we were decent to each other. And I say to you like my good friend from the Senate, Senator Fry, that’s what we’re talking about right here.

“It’s what you want to make of the United Nations, not what you want to do to us. We’ll survive that, if that’s the way you decide to vote. But the day will come when the UN won’t survive it, if you keep on like this, attacking everybody’s good faith and being intolerant of what decent people are trying to do. And then when somebody jumps on
you,
little smart boys, you can go whistle.

“The UN won’t be able to help you, and the world won’t care.”

Again there was an angry exclamation of protest from many places across the floor, some desk-pounding from the Communists, the customary UN show that more often than not greets the expression of uncomfortable truth. He shook his head impatiently and plunged on to his conclusion.

“One other thing,” he said, and a cold anger came into his voice. “About this black-white, white-black business the clever boy from Guinea made so much big talk about. I don’t make any apologies, to you or anybody, for trying to help my country work out her problems. She is
my country—
maybe you can get that through your heads—and I’m going to keep right on doing what I can to help her. We have lots of problems in the United States, and maybe race is the biggest right now, but I’ve made my choice on whether we can settle it by trying to work together or by trying to beat each other’s heads in.

“I think we’ve got to work together, and I’m sticking to that even if it means getting
my
head beaten in. It was! Two nights ago! But here I am, and I’m not changing because some cowards jumped me from behind. I’m not changing because some sneerers jump me from in front here, either. We’ve got more important things to do in my country than worry about that kind of stuff.

“Now,” he said, more calmly, into the silence that had settled upon his audience as its more vocal members had finally realized that he would not be intimidated by their outbursts, “you think it over. You aren’t just voting on us. You’re voting on yourselves, and on the UN.

“We can take care of ourselves, if we have to, in this world.
But you can’t.
You’d better think awhile, before you weaken this thing further.”

He paused and then spoke his final sentence softly into the silence.

“You’ll be pretty lonely, if it isn’t here any more to protect you.”

For several moments after he left the rostrum and strode back up the aisle, an uneasy silence continued in the great hall. Then, abruptly, the boos began again and, opposing them, the shouts of approval and applause. In the general uproar the London
Daily Express
turned to
United Press International
with a quizzical grin.

“Such magnificent candor!” he said dryly. “Do you think it will sway the nations?”

“It ought to be at least as good as the shoe-pounding,” UPI remarked. “And maybe more to the point.”

“We shall find out,” the
Express
noted with a pleasant anticipation. “The Shoe-Pounder-in-Residence approacheth.”

As Vasily Tashikov came rapidly forward down the aisle, it could be seen by all the watching eyes ’round about that in the United States delegation Representative Hamilton was greeted with handshakes and congratulations by his colleagues and that the British Ambassador, too, leaned over to shake his hand. It could be seen that Senator Smith clapped him with especial fervor on the back, and that Senator Fry spoke with him briefly with a tired but cordial smile. It could be seen that after this first flurry died down, the Congressman engaged in a private whispered talk with the Senator from West Virginia, and to some nearby it seemed that the import must be even more serious than the issue at hand, so concerned did the Congressman seem. The Senator from Iowa, too, leaned over presently and entered in; but if they were trying to persuade Senator Fry to leave the floor, as some suspected, it was obvious that they failed, for he shook his head slowly and firmly and remained where he was, slumped slightly in his seat, his hands resting on the desk before him. It could be seen that his colleagues looked at one another over his head with expressions of deep concern and worry; but there, for the moment at least, the matter seemed to rest.

The Soviet Ambassador was, as always, blunt, explosive, and to the point as he saw it.

“Mr. President,” he said with a heavy sarcasm as earphones went on and dials were switched to the Russian translation, “we have been treated to lectures here this afternoon. It is all we have been given—lectures. Lectures, lectures, lectures! How noble is this United States, Mr. President! Just ask its representatives and they will tell you. They will tell you and tell you and tell you and tell you!

“Well, Mr. President”—and the sarcasm became more biting—“perhaps it is being forgotten how noble the United States really is. Perhaps it is being neglected here. Perhaps all these words of the distinguished representatives of the United States are hiding it. Perhaps it is time to hear once more from the man who really knows these colonialist racist oppressors in their own land as they really are.

“Mr. President, I ask permission of this Assembly that the great fighter for freedom in Africa of the colored races, who will soon be seated among us now that his nation has been voted approval by this Assembly, the distinguished M’Bulu of Mbuele, be accorded the courtesy of the microphone to speak to us before we vote.”

“You have heard the request of the distinguished delegate of the Soviet Union—” the President began, but he was interrupted by a cry of “Point of order!” from the floor. Senator Fry was coming down the aisle again, walking with a careful slowness that caused a busy whisper in his wake. But he went forward doggedly, climbed rather than ascended the rostrum, and turned to face them at the lectern.

“Mr. President,” he said, his voice sounding heavy with fatigue—(“What
is
the matter with that man?” the Manchester
Guardian
demanded of his neighbors in the press gallery, but none could give him answer)—“my delegation did not object, some days ago, when His Royal Highness was allowed, without regard for the rules of the Assembly, to speak at length in a harsh and bitter attack upon the United States. We did not object when he spoke last night, because that was a concern of the United Kingdom, not ours. We will not object to his speaking here again once his nation has become independent and has been accorded membership among us.

“But we do object now, Mr. President, at this stage in this debate, to a rehash of old arguments and old attacks. The Congress of the United States has given His Highness full apology and recompense for any hurt he may have suffered while visiting this country. We see nothing to be gained by going over it again.

“Accordingly we make the point of order that the M’Bulu’s nation is not a member of this Assembly, and so he is not entitled to the right to speak in this forum at this time.”

“The Chair believes the point of order of the distinguished representative of the United States is well taken—” the President began. The Soviet Ambassador’s cry broke across his words.

“Appeal the ruling!” he shouted. “Roll call! Roll call!”

“Roll call!” echoed many voices, and the President, with an expression of annoyance, reached into the box of names and drew one as Hal Fry returned slowly to his seat. “The voting is on the ruling of the Chair denying the M’Bulu the right to speak. A vote Yes will uphold the appeal and reverse the ruling. A vote No will uphold the ruling. The voting will begin with Iceland.”

“Yes,” said Iceland.

“India.”

“Yes.”

“Indonesia.”

“Yes.”

“Iran.”

“Yes.”

“Iraq.”

“Yes.”

“I rather think you shouldn’t have tried it, you know?” the London
Observer
remarked ten minutes later. “It just puts your strategic weakness on the record again.”

“On the appeal of the Chair’s ruling,” the President announced sourly five minutes after that, “the vote is 61 Yes, 54 No, the appeal is upheld, and the ruling is reversed. His Royal Highness the M’Bulu.”

“What it really does,” said the
Wall Street Journal,
“is put the weakness of the rules on the record.”

“Not at all,” said the
Observer.
“It just depends on who they’re being used for, that’s all.”

“Or against,” said the
Wall Street Journal.

“Mr. President,” said Terrible Terry in his guttural way as the wave of frenzied applause that greeted him finally died out, “I am not, as you see, wearing my dirty diapers today.”

There was a shout of laughter. With a cheerful smile he nodded and went on.

“I am not wearing them because I do not think this Assembly needs to be reminded of what they symbolize. I think this Assembly is fully aware of what they symbolize. I think this Assembly knows who it is who really has dirty diapers, Mr. President.” He frowned and spat out the words with an angry emphasis. “It
is not the decent peoples of this earth, Mr. President!”

A burst of applause welled up. He nodded with a sternly satisfied air and went on.

“No, it is not the decent of the earth. It is not those who know how to treat their fellow men fairly and honorably, whatever their color. It is the racists and colonialists and the blind fools who crush people for their color who wear the dirty diapers of the twentieth century, Mr. President! I say that to my friend from Congress, and I say to him: Look at the diapers of the United States, Mr. President! Look at your own country’s diapers! That is where the dirt is.
Not anywhere else!”

Again there was a roar of approval, and it was noted that in the U.S. delegation the Congressman from California was being persuaded by his colleagues not to go to the rostrum and demand the right of reply. After several moments of heated argument, he was apparently convinced and settled back down in his seat, a fearful scowl upon his face.

“I committed a great crime in this United States that preaches to all the world,” the M’Bulu said with a harsh sarcasm. “I took a little girl to school. That is a great crime in the United States, for little children to go to school—if
they are black.
It is also a crime for some of us, as my good friend from Guinea says, to go to certain places, live in certain places, eat in certain places, live in certain houses—if
we are black.
”

There was an angry murmur and he raised his hand to stay it.

“But, Mr. President,” he said in a tone of elaborate tiredness and disgust, “why recite again the sorry list of sorry things in this unhappy land that tells the world how noble it is? We all know what they are. We all know that they will not be corrected without the outside pressures of world opinion—at least they will not be corrected as speedily as they should be. At least they will not be corrected fast enough to keep pace with us, who are free”—his voice rose in a series of steadily mounting challenges—“who are decent—who know how to treat other people—who believe in real freedom and democracy! I say to you, Mr. President,” he concluded as a wave of approving sound began to gather across the floor and surge toward him in growing excitement, “let us pass this resolution! Let us declare the conscience of mankind! Let us tell this United States that humanity expects it to practice what it preaches—if it would have us respect it in the world!”