Washington, D.C.
November 23, 1930
I stand at the entrance of the Mayflower Hotel, and even though I am behind the glass doors, I shiver in the frigid autumnal air. Normally, I would have asked the hotel staff to direct my guest to the restaurant, but today I withstand the cold because I want to personally greet Mrs. Bethune.
A young doorman asks if he can help, and I decline, saying, “I’m waiting for a friend to arrive. She should be here any minute.”
Yes, a friend is what Mrs. Bethune feels like to me. Even though we’ve only met in person sporadically, our letters over the last three years have been intimate. We write of our families, our work in women’s organizations, and our hopes for our country—all of a nonpolitical nature, of course.
Just then, a taxi edges to the curb and one of the older doormen opens the cab’s door. But when Mrs. Bethune steps out, he hesitates. I do not want her to face anything negative that might spoil our tea, so I rush over.
“Mrs. Bethune.” I greet her with a smile. “How wonderful it is to see you again.”
She smiles back. “And you as well, Mrs. Roosevelt.”
I’d almost forgotten the sound of her rich voice, with just the slightest hint of a Southern lilt. I feel dowdy in my simple flowered dress compared to her charcoal-gray belted-waist wool coat with a full round fur collar and a matching dress peeking from underneath.
Earl follows us, as he usually does. His constant presence has taken getting used to, but Earl is pleasant and makes it easy.
“I’ve arranged for us to have tea in the Palm Court. It is a lovely—”
“Uh, Mrs. Roosevelt.”
I face the friendly young doorman from earlier. “Yes?”
His eyes move from mine as he glances at Mrs. Bethune. “Mrs. Roosevelt, may I speak with you privately, please?”
I feel the heat rise to my face. Because of what happened the last time we were together, I have already checked the Jim Crow situation in the capital and was informed that there were no segregation laws in the district.
“Excuse me a moment,” I say to Mrs. Bethune. Earl comes closer to me from the shadows of the lobby.
“What on earth is it?” I ask the doorman.
“There are no colored guests allowed in the Palm Court,” the doorman says, his face turning beet red.
I feel sick. Segregation may not be the law, but it is in fact the practice. Racism doesn’t need laws, I suppose, only people.
“Let me speak to the manager in charge.” I square my shoulders, and Earl asks me quietly if he should handle it, but I decline.
I watch the doorman hurry away; then I return to Mrs. Bethune’s side. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Bethune. I didn’t expect anything like this, not at a hotel such as the Mayflower.”
But before she can answer, an austere-looking gentleman hurries to our side. “Mrs. Roosevelt? I understand you asked for a word.”
I have a decision to make. Should I have this conversation in front of Mrs. Bethune? Or should I step away so she will not have to hear? As I consider, I think the shame is the hotel’s to bear.
“Yes. Well, indeed. As you know, I’m Mrs. Roosevelt, the wife of the governor of New York, Mr. Franklin Delano Roosevelt. And my friend Mrs. Bethune and I are going to have tea in the Palm Court.”
For the first time, the manager glances at Mrs. Bethune. Almost imperceptibly, he hesitates, and then he nods. “I’ll escort the two of you to the restaurant.”
Stares and whispers follow us as we cross the lobby. For a mere moment, I am experiencing the world as Mrs. Bethune does, and I am horrified. How can this be her daily cross to bear?
I elect not to complain when we are seated in the back. Several empty tables surround us, but at least it will afford us privacy to talk.
“Mrs. Bethune—”
Before I can begin my apology, she holds up her hand, stopping me. “Please, Mrs. Roosevelt, say no more. As I mentioned before, there is no need to apologize for others. We have too much to chat about to waste our time on that.”
“Mrs. Bethune,” I implore her, “if you would like to go somewhere else—”
“This is so lovely, with the palm trees and fountain. It has such a tropical feel; I rather like it. Anyway, I was invited for tea, and I’d like to stay.”
She’s right; I don’t want to waste my all-too-limited time with Mrs. Bethune. There is nothing frivolous about her, which is one of the reasons I admire her and enjoy her company so much. With most others—excepting Marion, Nan, and my family—I’m meant to transform into a cheery, shallow version of myself, to jettison my earnestness and preference for meaty discussions and replace that with a light gentility that is more socially acceptable.
As the waiter delivers an elaborate tea service—brought to our table before we even placed an order, either as an olive branch or a way of hurrying us along from the manager—we settle into easy conversation about our children.
“So how are you adjusting to life in Albany?” Her dark brown eyes are soft and empathetic.
Something about Mrs. Bethune’s question and expression moves me. Everyone else assumes that I should be delighted to be the governor’s wife and that living and serving in the state capital should thrill me. I realize that she understands. She and I both wear many, many hats in our professional and private lives, and somehow she understands that becoming the governor’s wife might make that difficult.
“I am thrilled for Franklin. And of course I am happy to do whatever I can for the people of New York.” This is the beginning and the end of what I usually say. But the truth is brimming just beneath the surface, eager to be let out, and the lies are sticking in my throat.
“But?” She supplies the logical next word for me.
“But I’ve never loved all the smiling and hand-shaking and small talk and hosting teas and dinners. I like to get meaningful things done, and that isn’t considered the purview of the governor’s wife,” I admit. “For example, midway through the last dinner we had for the state’s mayors at the Executive Mansion, I got so frustrated with the inane chatter over college sports that I slid out of the room to do some work right after the main course. And no one noticed, a fact that became clear the next day when I ran into one of our dinner guests and he mentioned how much he enjoyed our conversation over dessert! Meanwhile, the work I’m permitted to do—socializing, mostly—is a strange mix of exhaustingly busy and very dull.”
“So I am guessing the Governors’ Conference was more of the same?” Mrs. Bethune asks.
“You guess right,” I say, and then shift focus. I’m not going to tell her about the president’s dirty trick. As tempting as that might be, it now feels beneath me. “And what about you? How is the work on the Commission on Child Welfare proceeding? Are you pleased that President Hoover appointed you?”
Mrs. Bethune stirs honey into her tea and then sits back before answering. “ ‘Pleased’ is a strong word, Mrs. Roosevelt, and it suggests a certain contentment. While I am ‘pleased’ to have a seat at the table, I don’t have any real power. That was plain enough at the conference. So I am not content. President Hoover indicated I’d be given a role imbued with authority that I do not have.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You are capable of more,” I say, angry but not surprised. No president has given any colored person any sort of authority.
She sighs and sips her tea, finally adding, “We both are capable of more, and yet here we sit. Me diminished by President Hoover, and you diminished by the rigid expectations for politicians’ wives. Part of the struggle to make change is the struggle to get the right change-makers in place.”
How astute, I think. Before I can comment, she continues. “Mrs. Roosevelt, we know we’re not going to change the minds of men and the country at tea. But there is one specific issue that I want to talk to you about.”
“Please, Mrs. Bethune.” I lean forward.
“A civil rights activist, a woman by the name of Mrs. Jessie Daniel Ames, convened a group of like-minded white women from all over the country.”
“Oh?” I ask politely. I see that Mrs. Bethune came to this meeting with an agenda of her own. How alike we are in that regard.
“Mrs. Ames brought the women together to help persuade Southern men to end lynching.”
Lynching? I take a deep breath. We are embarking on a most distressing topic, a subject that’s assiduously avoided in polite company. I feel like I’m about to plunge into a murky, deep lake, uncertain whether I’ll find my way back to the bright surface.
“That meeting ended with a report,” Mrs. Bethune continues. “The number of lynchings happening across our country is astronomically high, and they happen not only in the former slave states but in the North as well, including your own fair state. This is contrary to what most people think, of course.”
Why have I never heard about this? And what is being done about it in New York? I’m not much of a First Lady of New York if I don’t know what’s happening to our citizens.
“Now, you won’t read about many of these atrocities in the mainstream newspapers or in the formal reports that Governor Roosevelt receives.” She pauses for a bite of ginger cake. “But over four thousand people have been lynched in this country, and while many believe the problem is vanishing, it is not. Dozens of Negroes were lynched in the last year alone.”
I gasp. “No!”
At this outburst, Earl steps forward, but I wave him away.
Mrs. Bethune’s gaze does not waver, and neither does the conviction in her voice. “Yes, Mrs. Roosevelt, I am sorry to say. And there’s more. For the first time, a critical sentiment was set forth—one I’ve long believed to be true but have never been able to articulate.”
“What is that, Mrs. Bethune?” I know I must hear what she has to say, yet part of me dreads her next statement.
“Mrs. Jessie Daniel Ames and the women she convened concluded that one of the reasons these numbers are so high is the silence around the lynchings. No one takes a stand against them for fear of retribution, and no one speaks about them afterward, either to the authorities or the newspapers, out of that same fear. It’s a stance you can understand when it comes to colored people in those communities, as the threat of revenge is real. But people who are in a position to stop it or punish those involved—white people—aren’t doing anything either. Her report asserts that silence on the issue of lynching is tantamount to guilt.”
I consider her words. I have never perceived silence around violence or racist actions to be the same as the acts themselves. But why shouldn’t it be? Silence suggests agreement, and anyone who knows about these terrible acts—including me—should take a stand against them. Mrs. Bethune has offered me an entirely different lens through which I should be examining the racism in our country.
Unconsciously, I reach for her hand and give it a small squeeze. “I don’t want to remain silent, but I don’t know where to begin.”
It feels strange to admit this ignorance. After years of congratulating myself for advocating for the common man and woman, I am starting fresh here. It dawns on me that today’s discussion will not involve a pitch for the Democratic Party or even a shared project.
Mrs. Bethune squeezes my hand back, then glances down to where my long, spindly, pale white fingers are intertwined with her strong, dark ones. I’d reached out to grasp her hand without thinking, inadvertently breaking one of the unspoken rules governing race relations—white and black people must never, ever touch.
When we look up at each other, she says, “You have already begun.”