Negroland: A Memoir by Margo Jefferson

Finally, somehow, we reached streets I recognized and I could say, “We’re almost there,” and thank her with an air of cheer when I got out of the car. I couldn’t tell my parents I’d been afraid she’d never find our house.
    —
    Nothing highlighted our privilege more than the menace to it. Inside the race we were the self-designated aristocrats, educated, affluent, accomplished; to Caucasians we were oddities, underdogs and interlopers. White people who, like us, had manners, money, and education…But wait: “Like us” is presumptuous for the 1950s. Liberal whites who saw that we too had manners, money, and education lamented our caste disadvantage. Less liberal or non-liberal whites preferred not to see us in the private schools and public spaces of their choice. They had ready a bevy of slights: from skeptics the surprised glance and spare greeting; from waverers the pleasantry, eyes averted; from disdainers the direct cut. Caucasians with materially less than us were given license by Caucasians with more than them to subvert and attack our privilege.
    Caucasian privilege lounged and sauntered, draped itself casually about, turned vigilant and commanding, then cunning and devious. We marveled at its tonal range, its variety, its largesse in letting its humble share the pleasures of caste with its mighty. We knew what was expected of us. Negro privilege had to be circumspect: impeccable but not arrogant; confident yet obliging; dignified, not intrusive.
    Early Summer, 1956
    Two Negro parents and two Negro daughters stand at a hotel desk in Atlantic City. This is the last stop on their road trip: after Montreal, Quebec City, and New York, the plan is to lounge on the beach and stroll the boardwalk. It’s midday, and guests saunter through the lobby in resort wear. The Caucasian clerk in his brown uniform studies the reservation book, looking puzzled as he traces the list with his finger.
    “You said Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson…”
    “Dr. and Mrs. Jefferson,” says my father.
    The clerk turns the page, studies the list again, running his eyes and his index finger slowly up and down. Just before he turns it back again, he stops. “Oh, here you are, Doc. The hotel is so crowded this week. We had to change your room.”
    Trailing their daughters, the father and mother follow the uniformed bellboy into the elevator. It stops a few floors up; they get out; he leads them to the end of a long hall then around a corner, unlocks the door, and puts their suitcases just inside a small room, which leads into another small room. We’re looking out on a parking lot.
    When the bellboy leaves, our father goes into the larger small room without saying anything. He stopped talking when the clerk’s finger reached the bottom of the first page. “Unpack your towels and swimsuits,” our mother orders. “Read or play quietly till we go to the beach.” She follows our father into the other room and shuts the door.
    We unpack quickly so she won’t be annoyed when she comes back. Just what is going on? All the other hotels had our reservations. Mother has said that a lot of white people don’t like to call Negroes “Doctor.”
    At the beach we settle on our new towels and fondle the sand. Our parents, Dr. and Mrs. Jefferson, sit on their own blanket talking in low voices. Mother never swims, but our father loves to. Today, he takes us to the water’s edge and watches us go in and come out.
    It’s getting cooler, it’s late afternoon; time to fold the towels neatly, put them in the beach bag, and return to the hotel. “Take your baths,” our mother says, but only after she has taken a hotel facecloth and soap bar to the lines on the bottom of the tub that don’t wash away.
    “Where are we going for dinner?” I ask. “What should we wear?”
    “We’re eating here,” Mother answers.
    “What about the hotel dining room?”
    “We’re ordering room service and eating here,” she says in her implacable voice. “And