Was I out of my mind? Standing at the porch, having already rung the doorbell, I was having serious second thoughts. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. In short, I was scared! I had just walked nearly half a mile through the neighborhood to find the house, and I was the only white person I saw. I passed two different groups of black teenagers standing around, staring at me as I walked by. Of course they stared at me; I was totally out of place, I was one of a kind. What was I doing in their neighborhood? Still, I was terrified. I might have been more likely to run if I wasn’t such a slow runner; plus no one had done one thing that posed even the slightest threat. Never have I felt so stiff, so uncool, so vulnerable. Further confusing me, I didn’t want to think that my fear reflected racial stereotyping, but it undoubtedly did. I looked straight ahead, walked with determination, on automatic pilot.
It was the fall of 1970; I was 21 years old. I had taken a leave of absence after my junior year of college, not wanting to stick around and accumulate loans when I didn’t know what to do with my education. I would have left earlier, but being in school gave me a deferment from the military when we were fighting Viet Nam, a war with which I adamantly disagreed. The very first draft lottery for the war determined the order in which young men would be called into the selective service, based on birth dates drawn from a glass bowl. Mine, May 13, was priority number 315 out of 366, which realistically meant that I would never be drafted. I put in for a leave of absence to begin at the end of the school year in May, 1970.
After three months of hiking and camping alone in the mountains of New Hampshire, Vermont, New York, and Canada, I returned to Boston to find work. I was interested in biology, health care, and community organizing. They all came together in a minimum wage job at a health care clinic in Dorchester, where the medical director was a politically progressive obstetrician who had given up a lucrative private practice to dedicate himself to providing good care to those without resources. high quality health care for those who could not afford it. He hired me to convert the medical records over to a new system. I wanted to find a room to rent in the area, since I didn’t have a car, and I wanted to be more familiar with the community. I pu t an ad on the bulletin board in a nearby grocery store.
One day later Beulah Williams called me at work. She had a Southern accent, sounded like she might be black, and came across as a warm person. She invited me to come over after work because she may have a room to rent. Hence it was that I found myself standing on the porch, having walked half a mile, having rung the doorbell, and fighting the urge to run away. Mrs. Williams opened the door and welcomed me in, offered me a cup of tea, and next thing I knew I was sitting opposite her at the kitchen table. She explained that the house had three floors, and that the kids, all eight of them, refused to go up to the third floor because they thought there were ghosts up there. I could live up there. John and Beulah Williams had moved to the house from Columbia, South Carolina, where they had spent their lives. They had 7 children of their own, from age 2 to 25, one 4 year-old nephew, and almost no money. They lived on John’s salary, during the times he was working and not in jail, and welfare. Beulah was proud of the house, which she kept fastidiously, with the help of the plastic coverings on all furniture.
As I learned later, Beulah had already decided, based on our phone call that she would offer the room to rent. She had complete confidence in her ability to assess on first sight (or sound) whether someone was trustworthy. She had the warmest, broadest smile, and she put me at ease as she told me about the family. She didn’t seem to need to know very much about me. After a few minutes she offered me the room on the third floor, subject to approval by her husband when he came home from work. She mentioned him in such a way that I became nervous about meeting him. He would be home soon.
While I finish making dinner, why don’t you go upstairs and find the kids. They are hanging out on the second floor, listening to music or something.
Suddenly my anxiety skyrocketed as I anticipated walking in on a bunch of kids that didn’t expect me. I wouldn’t know what to say. I wouldn’t know how to relate. They would be suspicious of me. But Mrs. Williams left no room for hesitation. She whisked me up the stairs, and yelled at the kids, who didn’t hear her because their music was loud.
At the top of the stairs was a room, not that big, in which there were about six young people ranging from ages 4 to 17. They were dancing to the Jackson Five, their earliest music. They were totally into it, singing along with Michael and the others. Just as I feared, suddenly there I was, standing alongside them awkwardly as they continued to sing and dance. I was a tall, awkward, white hippy with a beard and long hair, with a bearing that essentially said,I don’t dance!Ugh! What was I doing there? Finally I sat on a couch with a plastic cover, getting out of their way, until the song was done. Happily, I was ignored. But as the song ended, Ray turned off the music and stood in front of me. Although he was only 12 years old, he stood tall and spoke with the authority of a man.
What are you doing here? Did my mom bring you here?
I answered that I was working at the health care center and was looking for a room to rent. Ray (with astonishment and disapproval):
mom said you could live here?
She seemed okay with it, but I’m supposed to meet with your father next.
Good luck with that!
Two of the teenage girls went,
mmmhmm,
nodding in agreement with Don. I had no idea what else to say. I was out of my element, and the father was growing in size every minute. The music went on again, and the dancing resumed. The 8 year-old boy, Jeremy, who would become my closest buddy in the household over time, sat down next to me, silently conveying approval.
John arrived home from work a few minutes later. Beulah called upstairs for me. I arrived at the bottom of the stairs and John was seated at the kitchen table. He was dirty and sweaty, looked tired, and was rubbing his forehead. In his t-shirt, jeans, and work boots, carrying his black metal lunch pail, he came across as impatient, maybe irritated to have to see me. Beulah brought him a glass of water, she sat next to him, and motioned for me to sit down next to her husband. She explained the situation. She seemed to be in charge, but she acted respectfully, even deferentially toward her husband as she quietly lobbied for him to approve of the plan to rent a room to me. After barely any exchange, Joe spoke with deliberateness.
I am a black man,
he said.
Life is not easy for black people. We have worked hard to get this house. You can move in to the third floor, but let me say this. There is one bathroom for all of us, and things don’t always go smoothly. If it works out, beautiful, you can stay here. If it does not work out, we will ask you to leave immediately and you will have to go. For now, I am tired, I want to get a beer, sit in front of the TV, and relax.
He got up and left, leaving a quietly jubilant Beulah and an ambivalent tenant.
The following seven months were jam packed with memorable experiences. But for now I just want to zero in on one incident, probably about two months into living with the Williams. Beulah worried about intruders and thieves; she took nothing for granted. She saved up $300.00 to buy a Great Dane and named her Missy. Missy was to be a watchdog as well as a companion. She was a beautiful, young, well-behaved Great Dane. Beulah treasured her. One day, when I was up in my room and everyone else was on the second floor, she looked out her bedroom window and saw an unfamiliar car parked next to the house. Within the next minute, a white man in his sixties, dressed in a drab suit, arrived at the car with a Great Dane and put it in the back seat. Clearly, the dog was Missy, the man was the person who sold her the dog, and he was stealing Beulah’s treasure.
Beulah was on the phone in seconds, calling a neighbor who lived two blocks down the street, in the direction where the man drove with the dog. She called out to me and her kids, and within seconds we were all following her down the street, following the car. Minutes later we arrived at a gathering of people surrounding the car with the man and Missy. Beulah’s neighbor had quickly assembled a posse of about two dozen people to stand in front of the car. The man looked frightened. Beulah walked calmly up to the driver’s window and motioned for the man to open it. He was white as a sheet and followed her directions. She spoke to him without a hint of threat in her voice:
Why don’t you turn around and come back to the house?
The neighbors gave him room to turn his car around, and he drove back to the Williams’ house.
We walked back and met him at the house. Mrs. Williams asked him to please bring Missy into the kitchen, where we gathered. Beulah sent the kids upstairs and asked me to stay with her. She invited the culprit to sit at the kitchen table. Speaking calmly, warmly, and respectfully, she offered him a cup of coffee. I could detect no trace of anger in her. Head looking down at the table, he turned down the offer of coffee, acting as if he didn’t deserve it. She insisted. She gave him a cup of coffee and a slice of sweet potato pie. Her generosity made him uncomfortable. I’m sure he was anticipating at least a tongue-lashing if not an arrest. She sat down at the table opposite him, and what she said next has never left my memory.
Sir, I know you have to be very unhappy in your life. You knew what I paid for the dog, you knew that we don’t have much, and no happy person would have stolen that dog back. I’m sorry about your unhappiness, I really am, and I know you are sorry for what you did. I can see it in your eyes. That’s why I invited you in. You need something. At least I can give you coffee and pie, something good to eat. I can’t let you have the dog; she means everything to me.
The man started weeping, and apologized again.
If I had been in Beulah’s shoes and if I had spoken to him like this, it would have been a way to punish him, to enhance his guilt, under the guise of kindness. But it wasn’t like that with Beulah. It was pure. She had acted decisively, gotten her dog back, and didn’t seem to feel the need to punish him. She saw him as a good human on a bad path. To me it was breathtaking at the time, and still is, that Beulah could act so decisively, so instantaneously, so effectively, in one minute, and then pivot to pure forgiveness and compassion the next. For those of us who have spent years working to understand wise mind, mindfulness, radical acceptance, and effective action, I knew that this was the real deal.