Virgin Soul (12 page)

I
couldn't bear the thought of staying at City one more minute. I started calling State's Admissions Office incessantly. I loathed pinheads who hung around the State and Berkeley extensions, taking a class and calling themselves students, picking up coeds, plastering the Cal or State decal on their car windows or wearing school sweats at the tennis courts like they really belonged. But once Allwood left, I understood. Whatever it took—whatever—I was out, even without my AA. Too bad if ten thousand other people wanted to get into San Francisco State. I had done six semesters at City, including summer sessions—seventy units, the maximum transferable. I was through with City. I was getting into State if it killed me.

I decided to go over to State and see if showing up would make a difference. I couldn't just keep calling Admissions. I had to put my body in motion.

*   *   *

I
crossed the bay on the transbay bus. For the long ride down Market Street through downtown San Francisco, I took the M streetcar, a scowling brother at the wheel. At Macy's, a slew of people and students boarded. A SF State binder pushed against my earlobe. By the Twin Peaks tunnel, everyone was so jammed I couldn't turn my head. The train went into the tunnel, the lights went out, and the car seemed to glide on momentum. No one but me seemed startled that we were traveling through the belly of the city.
What if we're trapped? What if this is a dream and I never leave City and the Dictaphone?
When we came to daylight, the wedged Victorians with bay windows like buckteeth had disappeared. Manor houses with manicured lawns came into view. As we pulled past the Stonestown shopping mall, swarms of students walked toward State like bees around a hive. I got scared for a minute. Everyone poured off the back exit of the streetcar. I got up slowly and stepped down. The door started to close on my foot. I heaved my purse through the door, which closed.

“My purse is stuck,” I shouted. The conductor glanced back; the car lurched forward. He barked, “NEXT STOP.” I stood in the well as the car wheels rumbled over the tracks, passing San Francisco State and the swarms of students. I tugged at my purse. At the next light, the conductor, smiling ugly, signaled me out. I stepped out and stumbled on a heap of gravel in the middle of Nineteenth Avenue. The streetcar moved on, cars sped by.

Another streetcar approached from the opposite direction. Several white girls, waist-length hair flying, ran across the track in front of it, laughing, their flared bell-bottoms flapping. They stopped next to me at the curb and teetered. The oncoming cars half a block away were gaining speed after the light. I started to cross, walking fast.

“Come on,” one of them said. She caught up with me. “They can only kill us.”

“What's your major?” she said, her dark blond hair plaited in one long thick braid. Like propeller blades, we whirred our way to the sidewalk.

“Journalism,” I said, adding, “I think.”

“I thought I saw you before. I'm in French.”

“This is my first semester.” I wasn't lying. It would be my first semester once I got in.

“Ever?”

“No, here.”

“And you're just registering today?”

I nodded as her friends pulled toward the southern border of the campus. They were a few yards away when she looked back at me. She began singing Roy Rogers's song: “Happy trails to you, until we meet again / Happy trails to you, keep smiling until then, . . .” and they joined in. And then they disappeared into the swarm. I could hear their lilting, silly voices over the crowd, birds tweeting, cars in third gear, and motorcycles gunning.

I had set foot on campus.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •

T
wisting spaghetti lines of students were everywhere. Student vendors, Army recruiters, sorority and fraternity insignia tables. Students for a Democratic Society pamphlets, SDS flyers pasted on top of SDS posters, Progressive Labor Party buttons on the SDS tables, Young Socialist Alliance mimeographed handouts, exasperatingly talkative, inquisitive, long-haired, short-haired, blond-haired-blue-eyed students. I looked for friendly, inquisitive, talkative blacks, or the few faces I might have known from City. No such. Instead, an Experimental College flyer caught my eye.

enroll in 70+ courses the college within the college the free U

change your life change dead curricula learning is a free country

many courses credited as instructor-approved special study 177s for 1–3 units

anyone can teach a course

The small print described it as “the Free University that began as student-initiated courses not in the traditional curriculum. The Council of Academic Deans has approved Experimental College courses for credit toward the General Education requirements.”

Like a bird-watcher, I spotted the black students in multihued array, in spiff versions of Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. I prepared my tentative, cool smile, shifted my purse so my opposite hand would be free to give a little wave. A girl in a suede suit glanced at me as her girlfriends fussed over her outfit. I smiled. She glanced away. I concentrated on my packet, wondering how to get on a friendly basis if no one spoke to me. I passed a table, the school paper, the
Gator
, stacked on it. Keeping my visual perimeter open, I scanned the headlines:
ASSOCIATED STUDENTS, ACADEMIC SENATE, SELECTIVE SERVICE, STUDENT ENROLLMENT UP, VIETNAM DEMONSTRATION, ANTI-VIETNAM DEMONSTRATION
. It all started to blur. The headlines, flyers, brochures, antiwar posters plastering every inch of open space, even the big sloping middle of the campus was rubbing at me, a mind bend, an optical illusion.
Growing Up Absurd
and
Compulsory Mis-Education With Paul Goodman
topped the list of courses. Below this, someone had scribbled a Goodman line:

students are the most exploited class in american society

The courses included:

revolution: pure and simple

the holiness of herman hesse

schizophrenia

violence vs. non-violence

lsd: an introduction

che guevara

the maharishi mahesh yogi

free love, nudity, masturbation and bisexuality

angel eyes: poetry from the beats

beat zen, square zen, zen.

I worked down the list. When I saw
black nationalism
and
black psychology
, I ripped the pull-offs and carried them to the next registration step. I kept reading:

miseducation of the negro

the history and social significance of black power

lsd: the psychedelic experience based on timothy leary's manual

When I presented my list to the registration assistant, she pointed out that I had signed up for twenty-seven units, an impossibility. She showed me how my Experimental College courses would become academic units once I was officially admitted. I ended up with eighteen units, six EC courses. I bought an SF State binder of my own and went to check on my status at the Admissions Office. After an interminable wait, a student clerk told me my folder was still in evaluation. I hated the thought of being a pinhead that hung around State or UC Extension hoping to get in.

But I had done my best for the time being. By the time I finished, the air had cooled and students were headed in droves to the Muni streetcar stop at Nineteenth Avenue. I stood on the narrow platform until the M came. On board I stood in a throng so dense I couldn't reach the steel rings. Sweat, tobacco breath, Juicy Fruit gum, hair, the sharp edges of books and notebooks, the feel of buttocks, the long lean slant of a back on mine, a breast perhaps not a breast pushing into me—in a blur it all became San Francisco State and I was swallowed like Jonah, whole and standing in its gut.

A
unt Ola called me up on a Sunday out of the clear blue.

“Your uncle and I will be so proud of you when you get your BA degree. That's what really counts in this world, you know.” I was already on the path toward my BA. I knew an AA in language arts, not that I had one yet anyway, didn't mean squat.

“We got this postcard notice in the mail from Merritt College. Are you thinking about nursing, Niecy?” Samuel Merritt was the name of a school of nursing in Oakland. “It's talking about your graduation day.”

“Merritt College is the new name for Oakland City College, Aunt Ola. They built the new hill campus and renamed it that.”

“You must be part of what they're calling the last AA class from the old college then. And they want you there, even though an AA isn't much more than a high school diploma.” Ola went on about how a social worker or a probation officer needed a bachelor's. I was focused on getting into State officially. All I needed was Ola getting huffy with me about not having the same amount of education Buddy and Corliss had.

“We'll help with the costs,” Ola said. “It says here you need to pay thirty-five dollars for the cap and gown and the diploma.”

I knew they would have paid for my freshman tuition—forty-eight bucks a semester—at State if I had asked, but why would I have asked? Right then I decided to pick up my AA degree and graduate. I worked for it—it was mine, even if Oakland City College was history.

I entered the auditorium on Grove Street, shocked that the whole school looked so raggedy. I was even more shocked when the program began and I was ushered onto the stage. I thought I was up there for a prize, which I couldn't believe. My average was 2.7-something, a B–. As I began to recognize faces, I realized about fifty of us onstage were the ones getting the AA degrees. The printed program had 170 names of graduates.
At least I'm not the only splib up here.
Abner was onstage too. My party-friend Layla, whose father was Richmond's first black policeman, was sitting across from me.

She slipped me a note: “Can you believe what it took to make it out of this rattrap?”

I mouthed,
No I can't, yes I can, where are the parties?

Layla motioned to the back of the auditorium. Like yesterday, if I ever saw a carbon copy of Oakland City College's front steps, the welcoming committee stood: Virgil, Cootie, Tony, and Reynard. They were the opposite of the radicals, the Free Cuba brigade. Virgil was the ringleader, a dark-skinned, clean-headed, long-limbed dude who knew from creation where all the parties were. Tony was second in command. They were North Oakland guys. While the president of the college droned on, I thought maybe it was the turf advantage, because Oakland City sat in North Oakland. They were all cockhounds—I knew that from the cafeteria—but North Oakland had top dogs.

“Of our total student body, the students you see here today represent the three percent that transfer annually to the four-year institutions,” the president was saying. “They have fulfilled our mandate from the master plan for education. The California legislature determined back in 1950 that any person in this great state would be entitled to the highest education, right on up to the University of California, provided he had but the capacity and the will.”

I saw Huey at the back of the room talking loud and gesticulating to the Virgil-Abner contingent. Huey was political but always at the haps. I wondered what he was saying. The first time I had gone to a party up in Berkeley where there was no music playing, and there were white kids (I could tell they were UC students because the guys wore creased khaki pants and twill shirts) sitting on the floor by the wall smoking marijuana, Huey had come in and mixed as if they were his next-door neighbors.

“And these students have shown the capacity and the will to make it this far. Only time will spell the next steps. Some are going on to Berkeley and research or professorial careers. Others are transferring to the state college system to train to become teachers; others are transferring from here to specialized schools. . . .”

“And some are going to stay here and party forever,” I whispered to Layla.

“But only if they have a wang dang doodle,” she whispered back. “If all you have is a pussy you have to move on.”

I found my name in the list of graduates. They spelled it right. Good. Layla's name was there and underneath hers was Huey's. Layla Nelson. Huey Newton. I stared at his name, Huey P. Newton. The nerve! Old as salt—he had to be twenty-three or twenty-four—graduating with me from Oakland City College. When it came time to march and pick up our diplomas, I noticed the guys in the back ready to scope us all out. I wondered if they were trying to figure out which women they had a chance with. I was so busy scoping them back that I almost didn't hear my name. As I walked around the room and tried to style in front of the guys I was so glad I hadn't invited Uncle Boy-Boy and Aunt Ola. I saw Layla and then Huey pick up their diplomas. During the cheese-and-crackers reception, I tried to eavesdrop casually, so I could find out where the parties were. Instead I found out what the guys were so hot and bothered about.

“Man, I'm telling you,” Virgil was saying, “we need citizen alert patrols up here.”

“Man, people from CORE and even the NAACP tune in the police on the short-wave radio in South Central. They studying the cops,” Cootie said. He was little and had big eyes.

“Why for?” Tony said with a stammer.

“After Watts, you have to ask why?” Virgil said, with scorn. “You know, that's when the OPD started carrying shotguns and riding fo deep. After Watts they say we keeping a watch on you stand-up Negroes.”

“Dirty dogs.” Cootie slit his eyes and looked at the podium as if evil was up there.

“The police are worse than dogs,” Huey said, springing to life. “Dog is too good a name for them. They're swine. They wallow in the slop of oppression.”

I was caught between two rushing rivers. Huey, so street yet so smart, was going on and on about the patrols. Layla was blocking moves from Virgil. She never went with dark guys. She had gotten in San Jose State and started yakking about how she was going to pledge Delta Sigma Theta. While Huey talked, the guys were mesmerized. Virgil told Layla she was light enough to make AKA. Layla said her boyfriend was a Kappa. Under her breath Layla whispered to me but loud enough for Virgil to hear, “I heard Huey got arrested for trying to pass off a five-dollar bill for a twenty.”

“What do you mean?” I said. The fellas were enthralled by Huey, except for Virgil.

“You know,” she said, “he gave the clerk a five and then acted like it was a twenty. My daddy said he's known for shortchanging, and then if he gets caught, he gets all up in court and gives the jury a first-class runaround.”

“You mean larceny?” I said and she nodded.

“Aw, man,” Virgil said, “Huey's petitioning the United States Supreme Court.” He turned to me. “You ever heard of William O. Douglas?”

“Of course.”

“That's who Huey appealed to, Justice Douglas, but the form he originally submitted it to was the United States Supreme Court of California.” He laughed. “Ain't no such court. Even I know that.”

Huey looked offended. “That's not why they turned my petition back. I didn't attach the order of the Supreme Court of California, which had denied me a hearing and an affidavit of service.”

Layla had her light-skinned girl's sneer on. She asked Huey, “Where did you get your legal knowledge?”

“I took a course in criminal law from the deputy DA of Alameda County.”

“From whom?” Layla clearly did not believe him.

“Ed Meese.” She rolled her eyes at me. But I didn't roll back because I remembered the name from the
Trib.
I had been fascinated by the Stephanie Bryan murder, opening up the
Oakland Tribune
every afternoon after school, imagining with Corliss how a girl like us could be murdered. She had been fourteen, walking home from school, and had disappeared from sight. First her purse turned up. Then her body was found beneath a woodsy cabin belonging to a Clark Kent type. They executed him in San Quentin five minutes before the governor called with a reprieve.

“Four days ago,” Reynard broke into my freethinking. He was cute too but standoffish, like he was judging everybody. “The Supreme Court ruled that a person's confession can't be used against him in a court of law because the police never advised him of his right to any attorney or the fact that anything he said could have been used against him.
Miranda
.”

He wasn't jiving around. Huey wasn't either. I wanted to ask if Ed Meese had anything to do with it. But I didn't want to sound stupid.

“Where did you take a course from Ed Moose?” Layla asked.

“Meese,” I corrected her. It connected right then. He was the DA when the police busted the free-speech students at Berkeley. And then I saw my uncle Reddy talking about the “oh-pee-dee,” the Oakland Police Department. He had said being a DA was a white man's steppingstone to the governorship. And that Earl Warren was proof positive.

“Meese, moose, mouse. What's the diff?” Layla said.

“I took the course right here,” Huey replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “And I've taken courses at San Francisco Law School.” He was not at all intimidated.

“Isn't a fool his own lawyer?” she said.

Virgil jumped in. “A fool would not have had two hung juries and gotten dismissals of misdemeanors and parking tickets.”

Layla could talk fast too. “Who but a fool would live his life in front of judges?”

I asked Huey, “Why are you petitioning the Supreme Court?”

“To erase this felony conviction from my record. I didn't commit a felony. I'm not a felon.”

“What did you do to get in trouble in the first place?” I asked. I expected him to give me some song and dance. Instead Tony started talking about some house party they had been to, on Fifty-seventh and Genoa in North Oakland some time ago. A guy there had started bugging Huey while Huey was trying to eat.

“Man, this blood grabbed Huey's arm, and Huey stabbed his countrified ass.”

Huey said, “I was convicted of assault with a deadly weapon.”

Ooh. I got real still. Layla got still. We looked at each other. I was out of my element and Layla's face said she was too. I started thinking John Lee Hooker, Big Mama Thornton, juke joints, pigs' feet;
roundhouse negroes
, I could hear Goosey saying. The fellas started playing it, taking positions, jabbing, stabbing, and duking it out.

“Aw, man, Huey was talking race,” Virgil said. “He told this dude he was an Afro-American. And that set the dude off. Completely off.”

“Man,” Tony said, “he say, man, the dude say it just like this, ‘How do you know I'm an Afro-American?'”

They hooted, all except for Reynard, who was slick and tall and always carried a Pan Am flight bag. He was the only one dressed up, in a tie and sport coat. He said, “The guy should have known. By looking in the mirror of Huey's face.”

Tony went on. “Then Huey say, ‘I got twenty-twenty vision and I see your black face just like mine, and you got kinky hair, just like mine. So you must be who I am. An Afro-American.'”

Reynard spoke quietly. “Huey said, ‘
Therefore
you must be
what
I am.'”

Tony, excited, talked over him. “That's when Huey made his mistake. He turned his back on the blood.”

Huey said to Layla and me, “I wasn't mistaken. It was logical. My steak was getting cold.” I wanted to laugh at this vision of him sitting down at some crowded house party eating a piece of steak and probably a side of potato salad on a paper plate.

“And that's when the Negro got angry,” Tony said. “And he said to Huey, ‘Nigger, don't turn your back on me.'”

“Oh, so that was you on the 88 bus,” Layla said to Huey. “You're that one who started that riot when somebody stepped on your shoe. Fool ain't know he committed a cardinal sin: Never step on a Negro's shoe.”

I laughed with my mouth closed, but Huey looked at her like her skin was transparent.

Huey said, “This Negro goes for something in his left pocket. And he grabs my arm.”

Cootie, blocking out all the moves, said, “That fool say, ‘You must don't know who you talking to.' Huh! He the one. Brother stabbed him. In the temple, with the steak knife.”

“Is this a classic case of overreacting?” Layla's voice dripped scorn. “I mean, stabbing somebody because they grabbed your arm?”

I asked Huey, “He didn't have a knife, did he?”

Huey shrugged and said, “I didn't know.”

“Huey told the court that fool coulda had a hand grenade or the atomic bomb in his pocket,” Cootie said, cracking up like he had been there instead of just signifying.

“Huey also said it could've been a handkerchief,” Reynard added.

“Why
did
you do it?” I asked Huey.

He replied in a deliberate voice, as if he had said it before. “Because he was angry. Because he grabbed me in a firm grip; because when he put his hand in his pocket I heard something rattling; because his face looked mad. And.” Huey paused. “Because he had a scar.”

Layla hooted on that. She said, “Uh-oh. Scar means he stepped on toes before.”

We were, all of us, ready to leave City and meet at Kwik Way Hamburgers at 21st and Telegraph, except Huey, who kept on. “Self-defense requires a double showing. You have to have been in fear of your life or serious bodily injury.”

He wasn't just a hood. But Virgil was producing addresses for house parties like rabbits out of a hat. I wanted to hear what Huey had to say.

“And the conduct of the other party has to have been such that it would produce that state of mind in a reasonable person.” He had memorized it all.