The 16th Annual Los Angeles Times Book Prizes : CURRENT INTEREST WINNER, GREGORY HOWARD WILLIAMS : A Darker Shade of Pale : Excerpt from “Life on the Color Line”

Gregory Howard Williams grew up believing that he was white and that his dark-skinned father was of Italian descent. But when his parents’ marriage disintegrated, his mother departed and his father, fleeing debts and personal demons, took his two sons back to his hometown of Muncie, Ind., where there was no escape from the truth he had hidden for so long: He was a black man who had married a white woman at a time when interracial relationships were still against the law.

In the passage below, Williams has just begun his first day at Muncie’s Central High School, feeling “a surge of excitement” at his academic opportunities but also learning just how “overpowering and overshadowing the perceptions about blacks in this society can be.”

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At lunch I entered the cafeteria and saw Ben Cook, a white cousin. In the joy of a new beginning, I gave him a friendly smile. His eyes widened in panic, and he quickly avoided my gaze. I realized he was going to be the same as at Wilson Junior High School--no contact or recognition. I simultaneously felt rejected and relieved. He, with his slovenly attire and Shed Town buddies, was not someone with whom I cared to be connected in any way.

There were two cafeterias serving lines, the “a la carte” line, with a wide selection, and the cheap “A” lunch line. Ben made a dash for the “a la carte” side. I stood in the small “A” lunch line, thankful I had the necessary 35 cents. A pang of jealousy overcame me as I watched Ben pile his tray high with sandwiches, chips, and desserts. I realized I did not have four extra pennies for a second carton of milk. But Mrs. Reese, our neighbor, worked in the cafeteria. As she served the food, she winked, and she gave me very generous portions.

After lunch, some students gathered on the sidewalk in front of the building. Peeking out the glass doors, I saw many of the same white boys who had loafed at the diner across from Wilson Junior High. Now they perched on the hoods of souped-up Chevys and Fords, smoking and flirting with many of the same girls. I climbed the marble steps to the auditorium. The smell of musty wood filled the air as I scanned the cavernous room. It rose almost three stories high and spanned over a hundred seats wide, starkly divided into three distinct sections--north, south, and a broad vacant middle.

Black students huddled together on the south side. Whites filled the north. The middle section flowed between them like a deep unnavigable river. This was worse than Wilson, I thought. At least there I could hide in our corner of the recreation room. How could I maintain the anonymity I desperately wanted? Goosebumps popped out on my arms as I realized that, on the very first day, I had to make a fateful choice. If I sat with the white students on the north side of the auditorium, the blacks would believe I didn’t want to associate with them. Yet, if I joined the black students, I would be an all-too-conspicuous “white” face in a sea of the multiple hues of brown.

I stood glued to the floor, turning my dilemma over and over in my mind. Finally, aware I had no real decision to make, I slowly moved down the aisle to join the black students. Another cousin, one of Aunt Bess’s grandchildren, whom we playfully called “Jemima,” sat in the middle of a chattering group of boys and girls. She was a beautiful, angular-faced, brown-skinned teen-ager, with long black braids. She hailed me immediately.

Her mother, Aunt Elizabeth, had fed Mike and me on countless Sundays when we trekked to her house in Whitely for chicken and dumplings and fresh-baked rolls. Giving her a relieved wave, I plodded down the aisle, unsure of exactly where to sit. There were so many new faces among the black students. I had an aching fear that even though I had made my choice, they might not accept me. Finally, I spied a vacant seat on the aisle. I took it, making my commitment, but remaining on the edge.

As I sat there self-consciously, feeling the burning stares of white students from far across the room, Jemima rose from her seat. Every muscle in my body relaxed as she sat beside me. Drawn by her bubbling presence, a group of students soon surrounded us. Some of the fellows were Bearcat football and basketball stars I had watched during summers at the Madison Street “Y.” I reveled in the stamp of approval Jemima provided, but the lunchtime conversation took a turn that made me uncomfortable.

It all began when one boy speculated about what he might do if he had skin like mine. He claimed he would leave Muncie, pass for white, and get a good job. Another boy, who reckoned that lighter skin would bring him easy access to white girls, was quickly silenced with a chorus of hissing. Though I tried to feign disinterest, a third boy asked me point-blank why I didn’t sit with the white students. I could only muster a weak “I don’t want to.” A senior basketball star, perhaps understanding my choice better than I did, spoke up.

“Greg is making his life less complicated. If he sat over there the white kids would find him out in a minute, and he’d be an outcast. He’s over here with us, telling them, ‘Here I am, deal with me!’ Don’t bother Greg. He’s where he belongs.”