as a thorough review of the books made clear. I explained, however, that I had heard the boys boast of being able to reach into the vending machines to pull a can out and had actually seen a few do it. The masters dropped the issue when one of the boys blithely demonstrated that it could be done quite easily, and no evidence could be found thatI had enriched myself. But there were no apologies. “Boys will be boys” was the reaction to the white kids stealing sodas from the machine. “Watch yourself” was the message to me.
It was the first time I’d felt the helplessness and hurt of false accusation. I knew that such an accusation could jeopardize my standing at Milton. The presumption that the actual thieves—the rich white boys who were helping themselves to sodas—were innocent pranksters while I—the black kid on scholarship—was up to no good stung me deeply. When I tried to explain why I was so upset to a young and caring white teacher, he explained a rationale that had nothing to do with race—in effect, why I was the logical suspect. I had control of the money, so it was natural to question me closely, even if I was otherwise beyond reproach. He was trying to comfort me, to keep me from being bitter. But I then appreciated that the curse of being black is always having to wonder whether the things that go wrong in your life are on account of your race.
That was part of the burden, the insecurity, of straddling these two worlds, and I could only do it by being true to myself. I was part of both communities, and they were part of me. I certainly did not give up on the people at Milton whom I had come to love. I became a loyal graduate, a trustee, a benefactor, eventually a parent of two students, and a mentor to many other scholarship students. But somehow I knew back then, even during the stirringlectures and quiet revelations, that I would get a great education at the risk of a broken heart.
By the time I went on to Harvard, it was easier to find my bearings in a place that I once would not have been able to contemplate. I knew the basic geography, of course; Harvard Square was at the opposite end of the Red Line from Milton and a frequent destination on weekend excursions with other students. And I was a Milton man at Harvard, after all, surprisingly but indisputably part of a long tradition, so I thought I had a leg up. My freshman roommates were eager young men from Alabama, Iowa, New Jersey, and Belmont, a wealthy suburb of Boston. All of us were afraid of failing or being outed as admissions mistakes, so we worked hard. On the weekends, we dated Wellesley women and went to movies and drank too much. I was trying to belong, to forge an identity, but even at Harvard I could not escape the temptation of false choices.
As a sophomore I was “punched,” or recruited, for one of the Finals Clubs, all-male relics from the days when the campus had no dining facilities. These private social clubs were filled mainly by the wealthy legacy students who had attended private schools. Apparently, one once joined the Hasty Pudding Club as a freshman and took one’s meals there. Then you moved on to your “final” club, where you dined with other members, presumably of the same social set. After a tortured period of being courted at fancylunches and dinners and rejecting invitations, I finally joined the Fly Club. Roosevelts and Kennedys had passed through the wide door into those cool, dark rooms, so why not me? Even so, except for an occasional black-tie dinner or garden party with the graduates, a cast of marvelous New England characters, I hardly ever went near the place. It was just too expensive and too weird: servants older than my father dressed in livery waiting on nineteen-year-olds, refreshing our drinks and serving us lunch. I should have known something was wrong when I felt embarrassed and apologetic about going into the building. At the time, I just wanted to be validated by one world or the
It was the first time I’d felt the helplessness and hurt of false accusation. I knew that such an accusation could jeopardize my standing at Milton. The presumption that the actual thieves—the rich white boys who were helping themselves to sodas—were innocent pranksters while I—the black kid on scholarship—was up to no good stung me deeply. When I tried to explain why I was so upset to a young and caring white teacher, he explained a rationale that had nothing to do with race—in effect, why I was the logical suspect. I had control of the money, so it was natural to question me closely, even if I was otherwise beyond reproach. He was trying to comfort me, to keep me from being bitter. But I then appreciated that the curse of being black is always having to wonder whether the things that go wrong in your life are on account of your race.
That was part of the burden, the insecurity, of straddling these two worlds, and I could only do it by being true to myself. I was part of both communities, and they were part of me. I certainly did not give up on the people at Milton whom I had come to love. I became a loyal graduate, a trustee, a benefactor, eventually a parent of two students, and a mentor to many other scholarship students. But somehow I knew back then, even during the stirringlectures and quiet revelations, that I would get a great education at the risk of a broken heart.
By the time I went on to Harvard, it was easier to find my bearings in a place that I once would not have been able to contemplate. I knew the basic geography, of course; Harvard Square was at the opposite end of the Red Line from Milton and a frequent destination on weekend excursions with other students. And I was a Milton man at Harvard, after all, surprisingly but indisputably part of a long tradition, so I thought I had a leg up. My freshman roommates were eager young men from Alabama, Iowa, New Jersey, and Belmont, a wealthy suburb of Boston. All of us were afraid of failing or being outed as admissions mistakes, so we worked hard. On the weekends, we dated Wellesley women and went to movies and drank too much. I was trying to belong, to forge an identity, but even at Harvard I could not escape the temptation of false choices.
As a sophomore I was “punched,” or recruited, for one of the Finals Clubs, all-male relics from the days when the campus had no dining facilities. These private social clubs were filled mainly by the wealthy legacy students who had attended private schools. Apparently, one once joined the Hasty Pudding Club as a freshman and took one’s meals there. Then you moved on to your “final” club, where you dined with other members, presumably of the same social set. After a tortured period of being courted at fancylunches and dinners and rejecting invitations, I finally joined the Fly Club. Roosevelts and Kennedys had passed through the wide door into those cool, dark rooms, so why not me? Even so, except for an occasional black-tie dinner or garden party with the graduates, a cast of marvelous New England characters, I hardly ever went near the place. It was just too expensive and too weird: servants older than my father dressed in livery waiting on nineteen-year-olds, refreshing our drinks and serving us lunch. I should have known something was wrong when I felt embarrassed and apologetic about going into the building. At the time, I just wanted to be validated by one world or the
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