Daytona Beach, Florida
May 28, 1928
I love the sheen on my new hazel walking stick. This cane gives me more swank than any of my others. The sun warms my shoulders as I stroll through Daytona’s Second Avenue business district. This is one of my favorite diversions, but I don’t often have time for it.
Between my work at the college, the National Association of Colored Women’s Clubs, the NAACP, and the Urban League, I am most often tethered to my desk—unless I’m on a train or sleeping inside boardinghouses or hotels throughout the country. And given that there’s a presidential election in November, for which I’ll be working hard to get Herbert Hoover into office, this could be my last idle time of 1928.
The rattling engine of a passing car tugs me away from my thoughts, and I turn when I hear a horn honk. “Hey, Mrs. Bethune.” A gentleman wearing overalls leans over and waves.
I recognize the man; he’s done some construction work at the college, although I can’t recall his name. But I return the greeting and then step back from the curb when the car’s tires kick up dust as it rolls over the unpaved street. I frown; I need to speak to Mayor Armstrong. It’s time to get all the streets throughout the city paved.
When the car is far enough away, I continue my stroll, slowing as I pass by Hattie’s. My chest swells with pride whenever I peek into the windows of this diner. Even though this is Midway, one of the colored sections of the city, every business on Second Avenue was white owned until two years ago.
It started to change when I went before the city council to petition for a business for my son—the Tea Room. The only Negro businesses in town were in the worst sections, and I wanted Albert’s Tea Room to be right here on Second Avenue. The city council denied my first request. So I left that meeting and returned every month for five months until they agreed—and we opened the first colored business in Midway.
A year later, when my friend Hattie Johnson told me she had an idea for a diner, I marched right back to the city council. This time, they approved my request within days, and now four applications for colored businesses are before the council. By the time I finish, half of these storefronts will be colored businesses serving colored patrons. As it should be.
Several blocks down, I make a left on Walnut, and at that turn, there is a subtle shift, maybe imperceptible to outsiders, but evident to the city’s residents. Now I pass several newly erected storefronts, and there is no rising dust from passing cars as drivers maneuver over paved streets. With each step, I edge closer to the beachside community of Seabreeze, and here, there are fewer faces whose complexions match mine.
I pause in front of the glass door to Miss Esther’s Fancy Fashions. I’ve been a longtime patron of Miss Esther, having met her for the first time more than fifteen years ago. A friend of the Gambles, Miss Esther has become something like my own shopping assistant, making sure my wardrobe is up-to-date.
When I push open the door, the bell above rings, and Miss Esther and her customer turn toward me. “Mrs. Bethune,” Miss Esther exclaims. The forty-year-old woman bubbles over with the same energy she had when I met her all those years ago, still as fiery as her red hair, now twisted up into a chignon instead of flowing down her back in a single plait as it once did. “It’s so good to see you. Can you give me just a minute?” She eyes her customer, an older woman with skin so pale it’s almost translucent.
“Of course.” I nod at the other customer, then turn to the rack of dresses along the wall, shaking my head in amazement. Whose idea was it to shorten the hemlines? These new fashions. Almost indecent.
I long for the days when dresses had lots of material that covered the multitude of sins that have expanded my frame since Albert Sr.’s birth. I was much more comfortable when every inch from my neck to my ankles was hidden. But no more, it seems.
“Excuse me.”
The Southern drawl makes me tense. But then I remember: I’m home. I face Esther’s customer.
She says, “Are you Mary McLeod Bethune?”
“I am.”
“I thought that was you,” she says, drawing out her words. Her lips, as red as Miss Esther’s hair, spread into a smile. “It is very nice to meet you. I’m Mrs. Wallace.” She pauses as if I’m supposed to know who she is. Then she keeps on. “My husband is on the city council.”
“Oh, yes,” I say.
“He’s spoken about you over the years and the things you’ve done for Daytona, particularly your community,” she drawls on.
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond, so I don’t.
She continues, “And my husband and I came to your Sunday community meeting last month to hear Langston Hughes speak.”
“Ah yes. Well, I hope you enjoyed Mr. Hughes. He is quite talented.”
“He certainly is. I enjoyed Langston’s presentation, although it was”—she pauses as if she’s searching for the right word, then says—“different.”
By “different,” I’m sure she means she never expected to be sitting in an auditorium shoulder to shoulder with Negroes. Unlike at other venues, including other colored colleges, I don’t allow segregated seating at my school. When I call my gathering a community meeting, I mean that. Everyone from the community is treated the same.
Mrs. Wallace continues, “But in spite of it being different, we did have a good time. We’ll be on the lookout for some of your other programs, and perhaps we’ll return.”
Just as she finishes, Miss Esther joins us and hands a shopping bag to Mrs. Wallace. With a broad smile, Mrs. Wallace says, “Well, it was nice meeting you, Mary.”
I flinch, then paste the smile back onto my face and tell Mrs. Wallace, “Mrs. Bethune is fine.”
She blinks. “What?” she asks, as if she hasn’t understood the English I’ve just spoken.
“You called me Mary,” I say, staring into her shocked blue eyes. “My name is Mrs. Bethune.”
Her smile fades and her lips press together, forming a straight line. Without another word to me or Esther, she spins and marches to the exit. The bell above the door jingles as she stomps away.
I watch her for only a moment and then turn back to the dresses on the rack.
“Oh, Mrs. Bethune.” Miss Esther giggles so hard, her face turns red. But I don’t chuckle with her.
As a child, I heard white children disrespect my parents, calling them Sam and Patsy. My parents never had a single day of honor, were never addressed as Mr. or Mrs. McLeod, and I declared back then that would change with me. Every white person I met would call me Miss McLeod. And if I ever got married, then I’d demand they call me by my married name.
“I bet Mrs. Wallace has never had anyone speak to her that way,” Miss Esther says.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” I say with a shrug. “She introduced herself as Mrs. Wallace, expecting me to address her properly. Yet she felt it was fine to address Mr. Hughes and me otherwise. She needed to understand that respect goes both ways.”
“So true. Well, enough about her.” Miss Esther clasps her hands together. “I haven’t seen you since the day of the Gamble dinner. How was it?”
“It was wonderful, but, Miss Esther, how did I let you talk me into that gown?”
Her eyes widen. “What are you talking about? You looked lovely.”
“Are you kidding? That dress, these hips, and ‘lovely’ shouldn’t be used in the same sentence.”
Miss Esther laughs, but I’m only half joking.
“Well, you looked gorgeous, and I’m sure you were the most beautiful woman in the room.”
Miss Esther often says that, and as she explained long ago, her words weren’t flattery—she meant what she said. “Oh, Mrs. Bethune, your dark skin is perfect for just about any color. You should be a model.”
The last part always makes me laugh. No one is searching for a five-foot-nothing thickset Negro model.
“So what brings you into the shop today?” Miss Esther asks. “Another special event, or are you going back to Washington, D.C.? Oh, let me guess! You must be going to a party to celebrate your new business. I read in the paper you’re now part owner of Central Life Insurance.”
“I am.”
“Congratulations!” She shakes her head. “I don’t know how you do it, Mrs. Bethune. I spend eight hours here in the shop, and when I get home, I can’t get up from my sofa. But you—you’re just amazing, acquiring another company.”
I don’t tell Miss Esther that I’m not amazing at all. This is another situation where I was left without a choice. This time, it was one of my teachers, who complained she couldn’t get insurance because of the skin she’d been born with. I had to do something about that.
“Don’t shortchange yourself, Miss Esther,” I say. “But today I’m not looking for anything formal; I need business attire for the upcoming presidential campaign.”
Within minutes, Miss Esther’s arms are filled with dresses, and I enter the dressing room to begin the harrowing task of trying on each one.
“Oh, Miss Esther,” I say moments later, stepping out to see myself in the mirror. “This is really lovely.” The purple crepe and satin dress is dramatic in color and style, particularly with the long scarf hanging over one shoulder. “I love it—except, why is it so short? I can practically see my knees.”
She laughs. “You cannot. It’s several inches below your knee, and you look so pretty in that purple.”
Perhaps the tailor can add a few inches to the hem? For the next forty minutes, I try on dress after dress, skirt after skirt, until Miss Esther wraps up six different outfits for me.
Just as I’m paying, the bell above the door jingles. “Mother Dear, are you ready?” The voice of my seven-year-old grandson is better than hearing my favorite song. Albert Jr. bolts toward me. “Mrs. Davis is outside in the car,” he says, referring to one of his two nannies, who do more than help me with Albert; they are also the organizers of my life.
“Okay!”
“She’s gonna give us a ride to Miss Hattie’s. I hope we can get a table by the window.” Even though Albert loves Mrs. Davis’ cooking, he’s bouncing with excitement at the thought of eating at the restaurant.
“Let me pay for these dresses, and I’ll be right there.”
“Okay, Mother Dear. Hurry.” He dashes out of the store as fast as he came in.
Miss Esther smiles. “I always love it when he calls you Mother Dear.”
“Now, Miss Esther, you know every colored grandmother in the South is called that.”
“I know.” She nods. “But it’s so endearing and sweet the way your grandson says it. You must be so proud of him.”
“I am,” I say. “I’m grateful to be raising him.”
She packs up my purchases and hands me the bag. “Thank you, Mrs. Bethune. Thank you for always supporting my business and telling everyone about me. I appreciate you.”
As I step back into the sunlight, two young girls passing by call out to me, “Hi, Mrs. Bethune.”
“Hello, young ladies.” Moving toward the curb, I begin to hum that Louis Armstrong hit “Melancholy Blues,” although there is nothing sad about the way Louis blows that horn.
Now it’s time to do my absolute favorite thing—spend time with one of my two loves, Albert Jr.