Dinner in Harlem, 1965
Bernadette Miller
During the tumultuous sixties, when America’s cities raged from race riots and the majority still refused to accept the Constitution’s guarantee that all Americans were created equal, no white person ventured north of 90th Street without urgent business. Yet, here we were, Roger and I, in our twenties, our clothes damp in the July heat, climbing a brownstone stoop to meet his gay roommate’s black relatives in Harlem.
As Roger pressed the lobby buzzer, I daubed at my moist face, and checked my blue silk dress, coordinated with simulated pearls, white heels, and matching shoulder bag. Nervously I scanned the overflowing garbage cans with their pungent odor, the street vendors selling sausages reeking of fat, the shops blasting Hispanic music. Black men, wearing the popular pegged pants and oversized jackets, had eyed us as we hurried from the subway; black women, their hair fluffed into Afros, frowned at us as they pushed baby carriages or chatted. I heartily approved of equal rights, but I felt out of place here, and wondered how Roger had talked me into this possibly dangerous visit, despite our ten-year closeness since acting class.
Panting, we climbed four flights and found the apartment at the end of a hall, whose fading wallpaper and worn carpet testified to once-better times when a white landlord probably catered to white tenants.
Mrs. Williams smiled hesitantly as she opened the door. She was gray haired and petite, a floral scarf pinned to her simple black shift. She studied us for a moment, then said softly, “Come in, please. Chuck’s running late with organ rehearsals. Apparently the minister’s wife isn’t feeling well. Chuck said to go ahead and eat and he’ll be here as soon as possible.”
Although from North Carolina, Chuck’s aunt had no Southern accent. I wondered why, since I’d exterminated mine after determined practice. Surprised, I followed her into the living room where Roger and I scanned the black faces and waited awkwardly, watching the whirring bureau fan flutter curtains at an open window.
“Sit down, please,” Mrs. Williams said. “The sofa is very comfortable.”
We sat gingerly on the dark tufted sofa while the family, filling armchairs and a hassock, inspected us.
Mrs. Williams introduced us. “This is Carrie Roth and her friend Roger Mainz.” Her slender arm waved at her slightly-built husband, Melvin, wearing a pinstriped suit, like Roger’s, and huddling on a hassock. Mopping his face with an enormous handkerchief, Melvin smiled with even white teeth, his gaze skimming over us but never quite alighting. She next introduced her young niece, Isabel, who startled me with her white skin and black features.
“Hi,” Isabel said shyly and turned toward her aunt.
Mrs. Williams then introduced her cousin Hammond, husky and fortyish. He pulled his eagle-adorned beret down over his forehead and stared at us rudely.
“So these are Chuck’s friends,” Hammond said finally, leaning toward us. “That’s unusual. Fact is, you’re the first white people ever stepped foot here.”
“Now, Hammond, don’t hound our guests,” Mrs. Williams said, her gaze darting from Hammond to us as she anxiously awaited our reaction. She fussed with her scarf, repinning it against the shift, and then smiled at me and Roger. “I have everything ready for dinner. I hope you like pot roast.”
“Very much, I replied.
“Chuck mentioned you’re an actress?”
Not wanting to deepen Hammond’s animosity as he watched us, I replied modestly, “Just summer stock and an off-off-Broadway production after getting my drama degree. I earn my living as a secretary.”
Mrs. Williams nodded, and turned to Roger. “And I understand that you represent artists now.”
“Yes.” Pausing, he smoothed his blond crewcut and leaned his slim body protectively against me, as if to indicate to Hammond that we were a couple. I let him but I assumed that the family must have known that Chuck was gay.
“I represent an excellent Cape Cod artist,” Roger continued, and paused again, his hazel eyes scanning a chest of drawers crowded with photographs, as if trying to think of something to say.
Hammond shifted his beret. “Would you handle a black artist?”
“Hammond!” Mrs. Williams swerved to see our reaction, anxious not to make a bad impression upon her white guests.
“I just asked a question,” he said and grinned at me good-naturedly.
Reassured that his antagonism was mellowing, I grinned back. “I’m sure Roger would if the person had talent.”
Hammond nodded and paused in the embarrassed silence filling the room. He pointed to his cousin, Isabel. “See, her skin is whiter than yours, but she’s still considered black.”
“I’m tanned from the beach,” I said, while Roger shifted uncomfortably. His only contact with black people was Chuck, his handsome mulatto lover whom he’d met last year in Central Park.
Hammond frowned. “Why is it that white folks can’t stand black folks, but they torture themselves under a burning sun to get as black as possible.”
“Please stop badgering our guests,” Mrs. Williams said, looking distressed. Her brows shot up, her mouth quivered. “We want this to be a pleasant evening.”
“I don’t mind,” I said, hoping to soothe her fears of having her guests harassed by a relative. “He’s right.”
Hammond, smiling, leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I belong to a militant group. Maybe you’ve heard of us? It’s different from Martin Luther King’s. We believe in fighting for our rights, or we’ll never get anything. Whitey will take it all.”
“I’ve never agreed to laws denying black people’s rights,” I said, looking him in the eye. “Not all white people are the same.”
Roger pinched my arm to stop talking, but I waited eagerly for Hammond’s response so we could continue the discussion. I felt the urge to reassure him that Roger and I were different from the usual “Whitey.”
Hammond scowled, his eyes narrowing to slits. “It’s nobody’s fault, is that what you’re saying?”
“Of course not! As a matter of fact, I agree you have to fight for your rights, but--”
“Oh, you agree.” He smiled then, his face relaxed.
The Williamses smiled too, probably with relief that the tension was easing.
“But I don’t believe in violence,” I said, ignoring Roger pinching my hand. “I feel that King will achieve his goals through non-violence.”
“Goals being equal rights for all Americans,” Hammond said, studying me.
“Yes.”
“Then, tell me something, Carrie, would you marry a black man?”
“No,” I said promptly.
The room tightened with fresh tension. Mrs. Williams drew back and rummaged in a handbag. Her husband patted her shoulder and whispered to her. She nodded.
Hammond leaned forward, eyes blazing. “I thought so! Carrie, you’re just as prejudiced as other whites!”
“Everyone has prejudices, including you,” I said, strangely calm. “The reason I wouldn’t marry a black man is because marriage is challenging enough, plus I’m Jewish. I wouldn’t want additional trouble.”
There was a heavy, strained silence. Mrs. Williams gazed in embarrassment at the cabbage-rose carpet. Her husband gazed at the window with its shaft of early pink sunset. Isabel studied her scarlet nails.
Hammond’s angry face filled me with pain. I tried to imagine his feelings at being a second-class citizen in his own country, but I could never grasp the depth of it. Trying to reassure Mrs. Williams, I said, softly, “It’s okay,” and turned to Hammond. “When you see a woman, you’re judging her from your black perspective. When I see a man, I judge him from my white perspective. We can only judge others’ beauty by what we like in ourselves.”
Hammond paused a moment, then said, “Well, I’ve got to hand it to you. You’re honest.”
“I talk to you as I talk to everyone.”
He nodded and smiled.
I smiled back, and felt a pleasant warmth as if being with friends. Roger smiled with relief beside me.
Suddenly Hammond’s voice dropped to a pleading tone. “Carrie, how did the Jews survive with everybody else against them?”
Touched by his sudden struggle to understand his plight, I said earnestly, “You’re forgetting that we’ve had five thousand years of practice! You’ve had only a few hundred. After a few more generations, a conversation like this might never happen because black people will be completely integrated into society.”
“We don’t want to wait that long,” Hammond said. “We want integration now!”
“I don’t blame you. But I want to explain something. In Virginia where I was raised, the biggest fear a white man had was that his daughter would marry a black man. They worried themselves sick about it. But don’t you see, that’s the worst thing that could happen to black people, too, for a very different reason. If black people, who are a minority, began marrying white people, after several generations they’d disappear! So from a practical point of view, the best way for white people to rid America of black people is to marry them.”
The family burst into laughter, the tension vanishing.
Hammond finally looked up, took off his beret and handed it to me. “Try it on. I want to see you wear it.”
I rose and tried on the hat. It hung over one eye, like the actress Veronica Lake. “It’s too big.”
“You look pretty--for a white woman,” Hammond said, grinning.
Grinning back, I handed him the hat. “Thanks, I’ll accept that as a militant compliment.”
Mrs. Williams sighed and rose, determined to change the subject. “Carrie, would you and Roger like to see pictures of Chuck?”
At our nod, she led us to the photographs, where Chuck ranged in age from baby-hood, to twelve playing a piano, and, at thirty, smiling beside Roger under a spreading oak.
“I remember that one,” Roger said, caressing the leather frame. “It was soon after we met.”
“Chuck spoke highly of both of you,” Mrs. Williams said, gently touching Roger’s arm. She quickly withdrew it.
“I heard Chuck play Bach at St. Anselmo’s,” I said. “He should be playing in concert halls rather than churches.”
She smiled. “We think he’s brilliant. But, of course, that’s just our opinion.” She led us to a bureau near an open door, and pointed out Hammond’s baby picture. A pudgy diapered fellow stared at us with huge inquiring eyes, obviously alert and intelligent.
“He’s so cute! But where’s his beret?”
Hammond laughed. “Yeah, that came later, baby.”
Another photograph showed a young black man scowling in his Second World War II army uniform, angry enough to split the picture. And yet, Hammond could be reasonable with a sense of humor. I shuddered at the harsh indignities that had transformed a confident child into a bundle of hostility.
During the pause, Mrs. Williams said gently, “Let’s have dinner.”
Amidst savory aromas emanating from the oven, we gathered at a table with spotless linen cloth, food-heaped platters, and silver candelesticks. A center bowl held floating roses exuding sweetness.
“My grandparents loved roses,” I told Mrs. Williams who passed the pot roast. “We grew them on our porch trellises.”
“We did, too, down in North Carolina,” Melvin said suddenly, pouring gravy onto his mashed potatoes. “My father was a wonderful gardener.”
“So was my grandfather,” I said. “He owned a clothing store near the waterfront. Grandpa worked hard at his sewing machine while Grandma sold merchandise, but early mornings and evenings he worked in our yard. Every square inch was covered with flowers, fruit, or vegetables.”
“My grandfather could do just about anything,” Isabel said, passing salad. “Fixed pipes, plumbing, electrical wires. He had to because no white men would fix the place.”
I nodded sympathetically, glad they could talk freely without apology or embarrassment.
“Have more pot roast, Carrie,” Mrs. Williams said, pointing at the remaining slices. “Later, we’ll have lemon meringue pie.”
“Thanks, but I’d better save room for the pie.”
“But you know, talent must run in a family,” Hammond said, resuming our previous conversation. “I became a musician playing the sax. Before retiring, Flora taught music appreciation in a black high school and Melvin was the principal. And Isabel here...” He turned toward her and affectionately patted her arm, “she wants to sing professionally. She’ll make it, too. She’s got a beautiful voice.”
“Oh, Uncle Hammond, I don’t know--”
“Don’t you doubt yourself! You’ll make us all proud someday.”
She beamed at him.
“Can we have a concert after dinner?” I said eagerly.
“Looks like you’ll have to come back for another visit,” Mrs. Williams said with a shy smile.
“We will,” I said, smiling back, and continued chatting with this interesting American family while eating their delicious Sunday meal.
But I never saw them again. Many opportunities are lost by accepting a society’s customs.
