Honorary White Read Free Page A

Africa’s racial policies, isolated from whatever the grim realities might be. Everyone knew that South Africa was closed to critical inspection, especially by Blacks, so I was safe in my hawk’s nest. Until now. What would I say to the Consul General? What excuse could I fabricate to explain my rejection of the visa?
    But, on the other hand, why reject it? So far, I had given full credence to South Africa’s critics and had readily allied myself with them. Well, why not see for myself, as so many of them had advised? No matter how trying the circumstances, I had the right, as a visitor, to leave whenever I chose. Yet, at my age, and accustomed to freedom of movement, speech and association, could I tolerate even for a short time the contempt, restriction, and discourtesy which were inescapable if I entered South Africa?
    Would I be willing to obey the “Whites Only” signs, ignore the “kaffir” epithet, and give way to Whites? I doubted that I could. Yet how could I ever meet and talk with South African Blacks on their own earth except by going there? Out of the blue was handed me the opportunity to “see for myself.” Didn’t I have a duty to seize it? Should I reject it on the flimsy excuse of safety or sensitivity to anti-Black attitudes? My doubts and dread nagged me like a toothache, but I knew I was going to go.
    The stewardess announced that we were making our descent to Johannesburg and I began mentally preparing myself for what I felt sure would be my first test. What would I do when confronted with the “Whites Only” signs? Would I have to undergo a separate passport and customs check? Would the humiliations I had heard about begin then or later?
    Preoccupied with these speculations, I hardly noticed that the huge plane had landed, was taxiing to its gate. There followed the gathering up of personal belongings and the long line through the narrow exit to the shock of warm sunshine on the short walk to the cavernous customs hall.
    Try as I might, the only signs I could locate were those over the narrow gateways to the passport control desks distinguishing between South African nationals and others. In my turn I was shown the same courteous treatment as anyone else and moved into the baggage claim area where I grabbed a metal pushcart just ahead of someone else. With nothing to declare I pushed my bags through customs and outside into whatever the next several weeks would disclose.

Chapter      Two
    M Y HOTEL WAS A new one on the edge of the business district, pompously dominating a busy crossroads and overlooking a block-square park, a green oasis amid the steel, glass, and concrete. My car had barely stopped when the door was yanked open by a Black, the doorman—tall, muscular, and resplendent in gray top hat, matching pearl gray tail suit, black tie, and gleaming black shoes. He helped me out of the car, smiled broadly, and greeted me in what sounded like Afrikaans but changed quickly to English when he noticed my failure to respond. He seemed surprised that only I, and not my white driver as well, would be staying at the hotel.
    Inside, the hotel was even more imposing. The lobby was spacious, with leather divans spotted like islands on a placid sea. Artfully carved and paneled woodwork on the walls highlighted a wide wooden staircase leading upward to the mezzanine floor. The doorman led me to the reception desk and presented me with something of a flourish. The white reception staff were all aplomb and courtesy as if well prepared for my coming. Gray-suited porters everywhere. “Good morning, sir.” One of them introduced himself to me as the manager. “I trust you had a comfortable flight.” I thanked him and said I had. “We are very happy to have you staying with us,” he went on, motioning me to a table to which he brought a pen and registration cards and showed me where he needed my signature. My name and flight