“With integration comes disintegration. Some Negroes wish to dilute the white race by interbreeding while others wish to eradicate the white race of ‘demons’ entirely. Revenge is only natural in humankind. As species have to compete for food to survive, so races must compete for the dominion of the earth. The Führer understood this and launched a brilliant preemptive strike but his fellow Caucasians idiotically opposed him — who can forgive them! One day there will be a race war. To the death.” Mr. Sandman’s voice rose, vehemently as it sometimes did in class.
Führer. This too was a word out of a comic book. Yet, there was nothing funny about Führer now.
“Violet, have you heard of the fearful science of eugenics?”
To this, I could shake my head no.
“Why is it ‘fearful,’ you’re wondering? Because it tells truths many do not wish to hear.”
According to eugenics, Mr. Sandman explained, interbreeding — “miscegenation” — was a tragic error that would result in the destruction of Master Races, and free-breeding — “promiscuity” — would result in inferior races having as many babies as they could and overwhelming Master Races with their sheer numbers.
“We have seen how the black race is being contaminated by its own thugs — cities like Chicago have become overrun with gangs and drug addicts. They breed like rabbits — like rats! Slavery is the excuse their apologists give — its shadow has fallen upon all blacks, and renders them helpless as invalids. They have no morals. They are greedy and lustful. Their average IQs have been measured many degrees lower than those of whites and Asians. How many great mathematicians have been Negro? That’s right — none.”
Relenting then, “Well. Almost none. And they were light-skinned blacks, Arabs. In medieval times.”
And, “In all fairness, some dark-skinned persons have realized the danger of promiscuity. Certain black intellectuals and leaders like W. E. B. Du Bois believed that only ‘fit blacks’ should reproduce — not thugs! The ‘Talented Tenth’ of all races should mix.” But Mr. Sandman shuddered at the prospect.
In my fifth-period algebra class there were just three black students — two girls and a boy. Not often but occasionally Mr. Sandman would call upon Tyrell Jones, a stolid, solemn dark-skinned boy with thick glasses: “Ty-rell, come to the blackboard, please. Solve this problem for us.” Because Tyrell was one of the better students in the class, and black, Mr. Sandman seemed bemused by him. Tyrell was not a thug certainly. Yet Tyrell was not what Mr. Sandman called light-skinned.
“Here, Ty-rell. We are waiting to be impressed.”
Mr. Sandman handed Tyrell the chalk, which Tyrell near-fumbled in his nervousness.
Tyrell Jones was in two other classes with me. Teachers were protective of Tyrell for he was cripplingly shy, with few friends even among the black students. He wore heavy tweed jackets that might’ve belonged to his grandfather. He had allergies and was often blowing his nose, sucking air from a plastic device he kept in a pocket. He did not seem young. Standing at the board in Mr. Sandman’s class, chalk in his fingers, he appeared to be paralyzed with fear, staring at the problem Mr. Sandman had scrawled on the blackboard as if he had never seen it before though (probably) he’d successfully solved it in our homework assignment. His eyes magnified by the thick lenses skittered over the class of (mostly) white faces as if, desperate, he was looking for a friend.
I would have smiled at Tyrell Jones if he’d looked at me. Just a quick, small smile. For if I smiled at anyone, I did not (really) want them to see; I did not want to be responsible for a smile.
But I was seated too far to the right, out of Tyrell’s range of vision.
Mr. Sandman had been peering at me, frowning. Could he read my thoughts? In my fear of the man was a numbness of intellect: I had ceased thinking rationally.
“... race war, inevitable. If they can’t mongrelize our civilization they will attack us directly. Even Tyrell Jones of whom you seem fond... he is no friend of ours.”
I could not bear it, the way Mr. Sandman read my thoughts. Often I felt as if my head must be transparent, Mr. Sandman could peer inside.
“Most politicians shrink from associating themselves with the ‘race issue’ at the present time — they’re cowards. As a public school teacher, I am in an awkward position. At least, in this northern state. All around me, I believe are sympathizers — embattled ‘whites.’ And yet, we must not acknowledge one another. I’ve had to be the very soul of discretion. I never ‘discriminate’ against Negro students, when they are in my classes. Nothing could be proved against me if the NAACP tried to sue. I never go out of my way to help, or to hinder. But I rarely acknowledge them, either. For the most part they are invisible to me.”
This seemed sad, and wrong. I dared to ask Mr. Sandman why he didn’t like Ethel, Lorraine, and Tyrell, in our class? They were all nice, and Tyrell was smart.
“It isn’t a matter of ‘liking’ them as individuals. As individuals they might be inoffensive. They do behave themselves in our class. It’s the race that is a threat. Suppose the Negroes were carrying plague virus? You’d avoid them then, even if they are ‘nice.’”
“But — they don’t have the plague...”
“Silly girl! They have something worse than the plague. They have the virus that will destroy the white race, from within. Look, I am one of the most fair-minded teachers in the Port Oriskany school district. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt. But the Negroes, I do not. I draw the line. I don’t ‘see’ them and I don’t want to teach them. I am obliged to teach them, but I am not obliged to ‘see’ them.”
“Did a black person hurt you, Mr. Sandman?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! No one has hurt me. I’ve tried to explain to you! This isn’t personal, it’s principle. Even if I ‘liked’ one of them, I would not want our race to be contaminated by their genes... Some of them are attractive, yes, and even intelligent, to a degree. I grant you, there are astonishing black musicians, singers, dancers. Athletes — of course. But their cousins, brothers, fathers — those are the problems. The race issue in the US isn’t black people we know, our students, our servants, and the people who work for us, for instance in the school cafeteria, or collecting trash, it’s the ones making trouble politically, and the ones who are their relatives. Thugs just getting out of prison, or on their way in.” Mr. Sandman spoke meanly. Words bubbled up like bile.
My eyelids were becoming heavy. Mr. Sandman’s vehement words were like blows of a mallet that has been wrapped in a material like burlap. Hard, harsh yet numbing.
It was not an unpleasant sensation, sinking into sleep. For now my heart was beating less rapidly and nervously and my thoughts were not flashing and darting like heat lightning.
Gently the voice nudged: “Vio-let? Time to wake, dear.”
Gently the hand nudged my shoulder. With an effort I opened my eyes. Seeing a man stooping over me, feeling his humid meat-breath.
Seeing with alarm that the sun had disappeared entirely from the sky and night pressed against the windows.
In a silk robe I was lying on a bed. A four-poster bed that creaked as the man’s weight settled heavily upon it.
The silk robe was royal blue on the outside, ivory on the inside. It required some time for me to realize that something was wrong.