An American Story (29 page)

I refused to assimilate by joining in racist initiation rites. It's a short trip from “beaner” to “nigger.”

I joined the Tuskegee Airmen, a black officers' community service and social group. It was named after the black flying outfit formed against much white opposition during World War II. They never lost a bomber they escorted.

Quickly, it became apparent that it was more about a pecking order and the in crowd than anything else—my high school SOBI all over again (and also a preview of HLS's Black Law Students' Association). I went to a Tuskegee Airmen picnic early on. The men clumped importantly together while the women eyed me. No one spoke to me but the president. At the (admittedly only two) meetings I attended, I was horrified to hear agenda items tabled yet again that had been in limbo for months. Sign-up sheets for the various projects sailed round and round endlessly with few signing up to do the work. They never failed to list their membership on their résumés, though.

The problem is careerism. Officers are always looking for “OER fodder.” To be competitive, your Officer Effectiveness Report needed to show lots of additional duties, like military-related community service organizations. No one's heart was in these things.

Next, I tried simply networking at my base, Kelly, an HQ command with a few blacks. I tracked down every one I heard about and stopped every one I saw in the hall under the rank of lieutenant colonel (I couldn't socialize with senior officers or enlisted). I'd expected we'd all be overjoyed to connect and create a haven away from our overwhelmingly white, albeit benevolent, world. I envisioned a lively circuit of weekend barbecues, card games, and to-the-beat dancing. I pictured involvement in the black community with substantive community service projects we really cared about and events we actually enjoyed. I was realizing how important it was just to be with other blacks and to not lose touch with, or become contemptuous of, the grass roots. I also looked forward to the careerist multiplier effect of all the inside info we could share with each other from our disparate perches in the intelligence community. Instead, I was surprised by how unfriendly they were. In fact, there was hostility.

The military is an incredibly competitive place; the officer corps even more so. Impressions count for a lot in the service; the mere suggestion of seeing ourselves as black first, Air Force second, terrified them. Blacks who were succeeding at the system, I was learning, often did so by distancing themselves from other blacks. I actually saw fidgeting black majors look over their shoulder to see who was seeing them talk to me; they were terrified that they would be seen as somehow distancing themselves from the Air Force. Turnabout really is fair play—that's exactly how I'd seen it when the Head Negro tried to involve me with other blacks at DLI. That was exactly how I'd felt to be one of only two or three at Skivvy Nine—white people would know I was different, better than those other blacks. I was a good black. I was like them—worthy of respect. I'm not suggesting that they were self-hating, just that their concern with their careers made them willing to separate themselves from other blacks so they could stand out. It was hard to get visibility in such a competitive environment; this was one cynical way to do so.

Invariably, if a clump of three or more of us formed in a public place at Kelly, nervous jokes like “We better break this up cause we're scaring the white folks,” or “No more than four in one spot, now. You know the rules,” were never slow to surface and provide cover for drifting off. Another part of the problem was the competition for black male officers, in critically short supply and therefore by definition desirable regardless of looks, temperament, or career. The men knew they were a hot commodity and often interpreted my overtures as amorous, the women as nefarious plots to get close to their men. Most of the black officers there were on “joint spouse” assignments which allow husbands and wives to be assigned to the same unit or at least the same base or city. Most of the couples at Kelly were joint spouse; otherwise, you're assigned as an individual. There is a great deal of infidelity in the military—nobody trusted me and I can't say I blame them. I wouldn't have trusted my military spouse far from my sight either—temptation is built-in and unavoidable in uniform.

By far, though, beyond romantic concerns, nobody wanted to abet the competition; there was value in being the only one in a unit. Blacks bemoan the “one nigger” syndrome in American life wherein one black per institution or career is allowed to achieve greatness and that's supposed to be enough for the rest of us. In the military, perversely, blacks often tried to enforce the “one nigger” rule. Too often, a black who was doing well wanted to be the only one in his office, command, or even career field. (I saw this with women, to a lesser degree, as well.) If they couldn't be, they could at least freeze you out and try not to be in the same place at the same time with you. I was competition. Blacks continually lament the coldness and cronyism that typifies whites' way of doing things, but we're no different when we get the reins in our own hands.

I was appalled by how careerist they were; I never believed that a checkmark in someone else's column was a minus in mine. There's room for everyone to succeed and talent will out. Besides, all-white groups weren't seen as suspicious—why should all-black ones be? They wouldn't, I believed, if we'd just stand our ground, but we never did. Frequently, I heard insignificant events analyzed through the prism of cutthroat competition. For instance, I'd be chatting with some black officer about a party or a community event and they'd dismiss it saying, “I don't see how that's going to help me get promoted.” I was all about getting promoted too, but not to that degree. Nobody can argue that blacks don't make the most of the military, and I was proud of us—but there
were
other things in life.

I gave up on plugging into a community of black officers—if there is such a thing, I probably fenced myself off from it with my head-on attempts to gain entry. Even so, ever the daughter of Eddie and Johnnie, I tried one more brave but naive thing before giving up on prying my way into a black community.

I went alone to bars. The very few women I knew were all Air Force, all married, not interested in nightlife. I had no choice but to go alone or stay home with Mama.

I girded myself with feminist reasoning to stifle Daddy's voice telling me I was a harlot, and spent a few nights trying to find some black middle-class nightlife. Looking back on it, I can't figure out how I summoned the fortitude to go out alone more than once; perhaps the difficulties made me stubborn. But I wouldn't do it again, not in the prim heartland. If a woman insists on acting like a man (i.e., moving about at night without a male escort) she is a presumptive whore and deserving of the male violence she is all too likely to receive.

I'd park under lights and very close to the entrance, even if I had to drive around till someone left. Even so, men, who for some reason like to congregate around their cars in parking lots, yelled terrible names, threw things, or taunted me with rape threats (“You know you want it”) as I made my way unescorted. Their comments made it clear that my being out alone at night where the fertile congregate meant I wanted sex. I may have been out of GI Korea and that prostitute-rich environment, yet as long as I was without a man or a group of women, I was undeserving of respect.

I refused to scurry. I refused to look away. I refused to respond in kind. I did, however, put a baseball bat in my trunk and a switchblade in my purse. I was tired of taking abuse, tired of being afraid, and tired of waiting passively for my next victimization.

In Korea once, a white GI followed me as I left the Stereo alone at 2
A.M.
With no help in sight, I angled my path gradually, and when he'd followed me to the middle of the deserted street, I whirled to face him. Taken aback, he stammered something about wanting to tell me I had a great ass. I just stared at him, waiting to see what he'd decide to do. He scurried off.

In Maryland, there was a spate of rapes at the nearby mall area I frequented for its movies. I cowered at home for a few weekends, as the local authorities and Bobby recommended. Then, furious at my purdah, I resumed my outings while openly brandishing a tire iron and making evil eye contact with every passing male. I knew I looked insane. I was
hoping
I looked insane because I was ready to hurt the next person who tried to stop me from going about my business simply because I have a vagina.

San Antonio was no different. During his first visit, Bobby, of course, found the happening black dance club immediately. While I waited at the bar for him to finish a seduction attempt, a man sidled up and asked to buy me a drink. I declined, knowing that Bobby would return and start trouble. To atone for not having protected us as teenagers, he now tries to kill any man who talks to his sisters. In a club environment, where men are particularly stupid, I knew a confrontation would likely get ugly. For the entire time Bobby was gone, that man stood six inches away calling me vile names and threatening me since “I thought I was too good.” Knowing that Bobby would kill any man he saw me struggling or arguing with, I never said a word. I never broke eye contact, but I never said a word. Bobby came back and the man vanished into the crowd like a wisp of smoke.

I was tired of taking abuse, tired of being afraid, and tired of waiting passively for my next victimization.

I didn't know how to use the switchblade I carried, but I did know that cowards would crumble if I stood tall. (Also, I knew that many whites think all blacks are street savvy and familiar with weapons—they'd assume I could handle such a ghetto tool and back down.) If they didn't, what could I do but go down fighting. Paw Paw used to tell us how to fight our way out of a crowd: “Just grab one of em. Any one. Beat that one plumb to death no matter how many licks the others give you. The one you're whipping will make the others back off.” That was my plan—to leave scars and go down with my eyes open. The very thought of cowering at home like I had no right to move about my own country made me sizzle. I was afraid, I'm
still
afraid, of men and their violence, but I'm just not going to let it keep me home.

Determined to avail myself of the mainstream I had battled so hard to enter, I made the rounds of San Antonio's nightclubs and discos. What pitiful excursions those were. On my solo nighttime excursions, rarely did I encounter other blacks; when I did I was barely tolerated. I sometimes found a table of three or four black women trying to do what I was doing—find young black men to connect with. The problem was that I was equally interested in connecting with young black women. I'd ask to join them and they never refused, but they were never friendly. I couldn't understand why they didn't welcome me—at least we could make our own fun even if we couldn't connect with black men. But instead, I'd come back to the table from the ladies' room to find them huddled, arguing about how best to ditch me. If a black man asked me to dance, I could hear their indrawn breaths and tooth-sucking as I moved toward the dance floor. Ditto, but for different reasons, if it was a white man.

I gave up on befriending women—they were simply on a manhunt when I was on a comprehensive Negro hunt. I'd have been happier to find girlfriends than a boyfriend.

On the rare occasions when I saw black men, they seemed physically incapable of meeting my eyes. I'd shoot them a big smile and welcoming toss of the head. They'd frown. Often they'd leave.

Buoyed with feminist brio and naive thickheadedness, I'd cross the dance floor, sure they just hadn't seen me, or sure I could convince them that I'd settle for solidarity; there was no reason we couldn't unite racially, if not personally. I tried to give them the long-lost-sibling treatment, but they angrily shrugged me off. Then, I figured it out. They were looking for white girls and I was cramping their style.

The night I finally got it, one of the brothers on a two-man white-girl-reconnaisance mission turned his back pointedly. The other seared me with the evil eye and snorted: “I cudda went to the West Side for this.”

Payback really is hell.

——

Intellectual loneliness was the worst of it. I had too much ambition to stay home, too much drive and too little patience with human foibles to be well liked, opinions too divergent from my peers' to be comfortable. I knew my “daylight whiteness” was limited, and every day there was another way for that to be made clear to me. The white boyfriend who removed all the photos with me in them from his photo album before going home on leave. The volleyball game where my coworkers said nothing when someone complained about a shot that went too high: “I aint no nigger.” Going out for beers with my male coworkers and listening to them vent their frustration at the lack of “decent” women.

I knew for sure that something had to give the day my office mate Lindsay and I attended a special meeting for female Air Force officers.

Rarely were meetings of this kind held during the duty day. Sans discussion, it was considered dangerous, divisive, and non–Air Force for women or minority groups to hold segregated meetings, let alone on Air Force property. Insofar as GIs congregated in these ways, they did so sotto voce, off duty, and off government property (usually we didn't do it at all). Billed as an “informal lunch talk,” it was a daring thing for these two colonels to do and we appreciated it. In the end, though, it scared me into entrenched insomnia and pushed me irrevocably toward separating from the Air Force.

At the lunch, we managed to seat ourselves in rank order as GIs always will. We lieutenants positioned ourselves at the foot of the table. Then captains, then majors, then light colonels. The two “full-bird” colonels sat at the head of the table, chain-smoking and gravelly-voiced. It was like my first board at OTS; I had a fish-eye view of everything and everyone, everywhere in the room.