His turn came to go onstage. As he mounted the short flight of steps, he was astonished to hear hissing.

Hissing was a Harvard tradition, normally used against professors who lectured badly or were rude to students. George was so horrified that he paused on the steps and looked back. He caught the eye of Joseph Hugo. Hugo was not the only one—the hissing was too loud for that—but George felt sure Hugo had orchestrated this.

George felt hated. He was too humiliated to mount the stage. He stood there, frozen, and the blood rushed to his face.

Then someone began clapping. Looking across the rows of seats, George saw a professor standing up. It was Merv West, one of the younger faculty. Others joined him in applauding, and they quickly drowned out the hissing. Several more people stood up. George imagined that even people who did not know him had guessed who he was by the plaster cast on his arm.

He found his courage again and walked onto the stage. A cheer went up as he was handed his certificate. He turned slowly to face the audience and acknowledged the applause with a modest bow of his head. Then he went off.

His heart was hammering as he joined the other students. Several men shook his hand silently. He was horrified by the hissing, and at the same time elated by the applause. He realized he was perspiring, and he wiped his face with a handkerchief. What an ordeal.

He watched the rest of the ceremony in a daze, glad to have time to recover. As the shock of the hissing wore off, he could see that it had been done by Hugo and a handful of right-wing lunatics, and the rest of liberal Harvard had honored him. He should feel proud, he told himself.

The students rejoined their families for lunch. George’s mother hugged him. “They cheered you,” she said.

“Yes,” Greg said. “Though for a moment there it looked as if it was going to be something else.”

George spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. “How can I not be part of this struggle?” he said. “I really want the job at Fawcett Renshaw, and I want to please the family that has supported me through all these years of education—but that’s not all. What if I have children?”

Marga put in: “That would be nice!”

“But, Grandmother, my children will be colored. What kind of world will they grow up in? Will they be second-class Americans?”

The conversation was interrupted by Merv West, who shook George’s hand and congratulated him on getting his degree. Professor West was a little underdressed in a tweed suit and a button-down collar.

George said: “Thank you for starting the applause, Professor.”

“Don’t thank me, you deserved it.”

George introduced his family. “We were just talking about my future.”

“I hope you haven’t made any final decisions.”

George’s curiosity was piqued. What did that mean? “Not yet,” he said. “Why?”