WHAT CAN I DO?

'THE conscience of the white man has always been the Negro's potential ally. Even before the Abolitionists' underground railroad spirited runaway Southern slaves to comparative sanctuary in the North, there were white Americans willing to denounce, and even to oppose, a system that infringed the cardinal tenet of democracy. But white conscience has been too passive, too diffuse, too reticent a force, in part because the power of the individual conscience is difficult to pool, and in part because the cause of equal rights is such a massive undertaking. Now there is widespread evidence that the white American conscience is, more insistently than ever, asking: "What can I do?"

The search for answers proceeds, however guiltily or imperfectly, with new resolve. Since the murder of Martin Luther King, says Whitney M. Young Jr., executive director of the National Urban League, civil rights has stopped being a "spectator sport." Like no other single event in the history of U.S. race relations, the assassination of King, a man who staked his life on his country's conscience, drove home the need for personal commitment to a cause that can easily be lost by default. "The vast untapped resources of the silent, decent people have been awakened," wrote Young in his syndicated newspaper column. "In this tragic period, they offer the nation hope."

Remove the Sore

In hundreds of localities and in thousands of concerned hearts, bridge building between the races is under way. Often the instrument is one human spirit, galvanized by an intolerable burden of contrition or shame. "I came to the conclusion that our country is very far from what we say it is in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution," says Alan S. Traugott, 44, of Glen Ellyn, Ill., a white suburb west of Chicago. In March, this conviction led Traugott to resign his five-figure income and position as manager of the Sears, Roebuck store in Englewood, a Chicago neighborhood that is predominantly black. Now jobless, he intends to dedicate himself full time, in any way he can, to brotherhood between the black and white communities.

Such total commitment is rare, but there are many examples of effective effort. In Los Angeles' San Fernando Valley last summer, Dr. Curtis Stevens, a white psychologist, opened his backyard swimming pool to Negro children, and was soon playing host to two shifts a day, five days a week. By the end of summer, as Stevens' example spread, 2,000 Negro youngsters were regularly and happily splashing in 22 private pools. With the help of volunteers, both black and white, Cleveland Adman Frank T. McDonough, 64, re-sodded lawns in a seven-block area in Hough, the city's ghetto. He has since marked 40 more blocks for the same treatment. "Some day I knew I was going to see my Maker," said McDonough, a devout Roman Catholic, "and he would say: 'You knew what was going on, what did you do about it?' I knew I'd better have an answer."