Life Is a 4-Letter Word - David A. Levy

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versus Black. Black versus White. It was the late 1960s, and Morningside High School was undergoing the growing pains of racial integration. Although the fires of the 1965 Watts riots — located just a few miles to our east — had been doused years before, our school was still smoldering with racial tension. Stresses and strains permeated the campus. Walking through hallways could be hazardous. Restrooms were rife with hidden dangers. Heated interracial fistfights would spontaneously erupt in the quad lunch area, with spectators feverishly rooting for their favored combatant — based solely on skin color.

      But for one week that fall, things felt…different. We were about to face off in our annual football game against our cross-town rival to the north: Inglewood High. This promised to be more than your typical “rah-rah” game of high school football, however. You see, Inglewood High didn’t have a single black student. And that fact held profound meaning that was not lost on any of us at Morningside.

      That week, as if by magic, interracial boundaries at our school were dissolving, ousted by a newfound sense of shared purpose and meaning. Black and white students were now smiling and chatting with each other. Rancorous disputes were replaced with enthusiastic conversations. The sounds of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Everyday People” reverberated through the halls and permeated our souls.

      The night of the Big Game, the atmosphere at the stadium was teeming with the aroma of hotdogs, popcorn, and hope. We were galvanized and we were mighty. Colors had been realigned: No longer was there segregation of black and

      white — only unity under the red and white banner of our beloved Morningside Monarchs. The racial divide had been bridged by a collective purpose against a common foe. The stakes couldn’t have felt higher — for we were rooting not just for our team on the field, but also for racial harmony within our school and across the land.

      From the opening kickoff, we fought hard. We fought tough. We fought close. And we lost. We lost.

      Honestly, the game was played fair and square — we simply got beat by the better team. The final score was right; but the final outcome was so wrong. Deeply wrong. Symbolically wrong. Morally wrong. If this were a just world, we would have emerged victorious. But for us, there was to be no justice…only bitter defeat.

      Shell-shocked and disillusioned, we numbly filed out of the stadium, our collective hearts shattered into a million splinters. And adding to the misery of that wretched night, we were forced to endure the spectacle of our opponents’ jubilant celebrations spilling out from their stands and onto the field. Had this been a movie, it would have been an absolutely rotten ending.

      Of course, it was tempting to demonize the students at Inglewood High as somehow being the enemy of racial tolerance. But that simply wasn’t the case. I actually had a number of friends who went there, and I knew that they were good, decent people (I mean, as much as your typical teenager could possibly be). No, the kids at Inglewood were just high school students — like us — who happened to be on the winning side of a lousy football game.

      Over the next week, a sense of emptiness and despair was palpable across Morningside High. Sure, we’d all heard the adage that “life isn’t fair” over the span of our relatively short lifetimes. From almost our first moments of consciousness, everybody is exposed to a never-ending barrage of unfairness — whether at home, school, or play. But this was an exceptionally gut-wrenching reminder. For this was not just your sister getting a bigger slice of cake, or you not getting selected for the school play; no, this was a direct assault on the very concept of moral justice.

      Nevertheless, having the camaraderie of others who were experiencing the same feeling was a salve that somehow helped to soothe our pain. And slowly, time began to heal the wounds. I can’t say that it mended all racial divides. But there was noticeably less tension and fewer conflicts around the school. We were scarred and deflated, but now bonded — through the agony of a shared defeat. Hard times can forge stronger ties than cheerful times.

      Oh, and by the way, a few weeks later, Morningside squared off against another non-integrated high school — this one from an affluent area on a hill several miles to our south. During this contest, many students in their crowd were less than civil. They taunted us with verbal insults and Confederate flags. I don’t actually recall the score; but I do remember that we pummeled the snot out of them. That conquest — at least for that one night — felt like unfairness had been vindicated. (And it would have made a much better ending for a movie…)

      First, together in defeat; now, together in victory. Life is not fair, but it’s easier in unity. “Power to the people, right on!”

      Life Lesson:

      Life isn’t fair —

      but it’s easier with

      companionship.

      The courtroom was cold, ominous, and intimidating. But naturally I couldn’t show how I felt. I was sixteen years old and was not about to appear as anything other than aloof and bored. My poor mom was both nervous and embarrassed as we approached the judge’s bench…

      Having been issued a traffic ticket the month before, I was making my mandated court appearance. Evidently, the engineers at Fiat had neither the foresight nor courtesy to design their mid-1960s two-seat convertible to accommodate a driver and five teenage passengers. After rehearsals for our high school production of “The Skin of Our Teeth,” I’d hastily lower the top and cram as many cast members into the car as possible — some of them wedged behind the seats and some onto the trunk — and ferry them home. The nightly rides were sheer joy. But one evening, the buzzkill of those flashing red lights abruptly swung our collective mood from unbridled ecstasy to deep gloom. And although I was definitely bummed out, I really can’t say that I was surprised.

      The judge pondered something for a couple minutes, then admonished me for my behavior, let me off with a warning, and dismissed the case. My mom breathed an audible sigh of relief, thanked him, and we headed toward the exit. But, dammit, I just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Much to my mother’s chagrin, I turned back, overcome by an uncontrollable need to stand up to The Man and get in the last word: “Excuse me, Your Honor,” my voice dripping with sarcasm, “but I didn’t realize that there was any particular law against the number of people I can carry in my car.”

      The judge’s look was stern, but his voice was kindly: “But you knew it was wrong, didn’t you, son?” He had me. I had nothing to say. No flimsy excuse. No convoluted rationalization. No smartass teenage retort. Nothing. My juvenile swagger had dissolved into humbled silence. I simply lowered my eyes and nodded slowly.

      Of course, he was right. He knew it. My mom knew it. Everybody in the courtroom knew it. And, most important, I knew it.

      It’s easy to rationalize irrational behavior — it gives us comfort. It’s much harder to seek and accept the truth — it can be painful. And recognizing the difference between the two can be harder still. But if we value truth over self-deception, it’s well worth the pursuit.

      Life Lesson:

      Defeat rationalizations with truth.

      The price was right. Ever since it first opened its doors, the LA Free Clinic was a welcome refuge for those lacking in either medical insurance or financial resources — which, as a recent college graduate in the mid-1970s, was me. Once there, you could seek assistance for everything from a dog bite or sprained ankle to hepatitis or pregnancy testing. All you had to do was walk in, provide the quasi-hippie chick behind the counter with your name, reason for visit, astrological sign (no, I am not making that up), and then wait…and wait…and wait…

      As

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