New York, New York
March 10, 1932
This is no Mayflower Hotel. The moment I step into the restaurant, I am greeted like an old friend. “Mrs. Bethune, how lovely to see you,” Roberto Marino, the proprietor of the restaurant, welcomes me in a singsong voice, spreading his arms wide. “Welcome back to Marino’s.”
With its red-checked tablecloths and family pictures on the walls, Marino’s is every bit as cozy as when Roberto’s father arrived in America from Sicily thirty years ago. It’s one of the only white-owned restaurants in East Harlem that welcomes me.
Spotting Mrs. Roosevelt against the bright red wall, I smile. I’ve begun to think of Mrs. Roosevelt as my friend. From the moment I discussed lynching with her in our last meeting, all she has wanted to do is help. In the letters we’ve exchanged since, her offers to learn and assist have only grown. This has not been my experience with other white people, not even Mr. Gamble and Mr. White, who limit their contributions to the struggle to writing checks.
When Mrs. Roosevelt sees me, her smile is as wide as Roberto’s. “Mrs. Bethune, it’s so good to see you again. It’s been too long.”
Earl, her security guard, stands several feet behind Mrs. Roosevelt and nods at me in greeting. Is he here because she’s the governor’s wife or because she’s in Harlem? Either way, I’m not offended.
Roberto takes my fur-trimmed wrap as I slide into my chair. “I hope this restaurant is fine with you.”
“Oh, yes,” she says, looking around, “it’s charming.”
“It’s not only charming, but the food is marvelous,” I say. “Whether you have the pork chops or their famous meatballs, we will have a fantastic meal.”
“Fantastic meals are something I always look forward to.”
“Me too, Mrs. Roosevelt. I think you can tell by looking at me that few fantastic meals have passed me by.” I laugh, but Mrs. Roosevelt does not. Instead her eyes twinkle and her lips quiver as if she’s trying to hold her composure. But she loses the battle, giggles, and, finally, releases a high-pitched laugh that makes other patrons turn toward us. I laugh even louder.
“Oh, Mrs. Bethune,” she finally says as she covers her mouth, still fighting to stifle her laughter. “You look absolutely beautiful.” Her tone is sincere.
“Thank you, but we both know I could stand to lose a little weight—a pound or twenty.” I sigh. “But what I always tell my doctor is that good food is my weakness. It started when I was a child.”
Mrs. Roosevelt tilts her head with curiosity. From what I already know about her, she’s too polite to ask how the poor child of former slaves had access to good food.
I explain, “Food has always been a way for Negroes to hold on to a bit of dignity in the most undignified circumstances. That’s a lesson I learned from my mother and grandmother. They poured their love into the food they prepared, and I’m telling you, Mrs. Roosevelt, you haven’t tasted anything until you’ve had some pickled pigs’ feet, hog maws, and smothered oxtails.” When Mrs. Roosevelt’s lips twist in horror, I laugh again.
Mrs. Roosevelt swallows before she stutters, “I . . . can’t say . . . I’ve ever heard . . . of those dishes.”
“I’m sure. Most of the food I grew up loving, my mother and grandmother learned to prepare from scraps they were given on the plantation. After the owner took the best part of the cow, he left the slaves with the tongue or the tail. With the pig, we were given the feet, the stomach, and the intestines.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Roosevelt gasps. “That sounds horrible.”
I think for a moment of those meals I’ve come to love. “Maybe that’s how it was intended, but that was the first lesson in what colored folks call ‘making a way out of no way.’ Those parts of the pig are some of the tastiest food you’ll ever have. But not now. Today, we’ll feast on Marino’s specialties.”
“Well, I’m glad we were able to find a place more welcoming than last time,” she says.
I nod, pleased that Mrs. Roosevelt doesn’t try to apologize again for something she didn’t do. “Moving through this country, I’ve learned the racial challenges stretch far beyond the South. Segregation is as much a fact in the North.”
“You’ve taught me that,” she says.
A waiter takes our drink orders, and I explain there is no menu. Marino’s simply makes fresh dishes daily and serves them.
Once we are alone, Mrs. Roosevelt says, “So, Mrs. Bethune, given what you’ve told me about your mother and grandmother, I assume you’re a good cook.”
Now I rattle the walls with laughter. “Absolutely not. I don’t cook at all.”
“I would’ve thought . . .” She trails off.
“No. Once I went away to school, I determined to focus on all things academic. What about you? Do you enjoy cooking?”
Eleanor laughs as deeply as I just did. “Unless you count the scrambled eggs I serve on Sunday evening for supper, no. But I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t cook for a very different reason—there was always the assumption I’d have a cook, so I wouldn’t need to learn.”
The conversation shifts again, toward the work in which we’ve each been engaged. Our exchange continues to be smooth, easy, as if we’re decades-long friends. A rogue thought enters my mind, one I’ve never considered about a white person.
Since I decided as a child how I wanted white people to address me, I’ve never given a white person permission to call me anything except for Mrs. Bethune. With this lovely woman before me now, however, I feel differently. There are moments when I hardly notice the difference in our skin tones. So this kind of formality—“Mrs. Bethune” and “Mrs. Roosevelt”—when we’ve laughed about everything from our favorite foods to my weight feels too formal.
When there is a pause in our conversation, I say, “I really enjoy you, Mrs. Roosevelt, and consider you a friend.”
Her smile is wide when she says, “I feel the same way.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking. Given the candor of our conversations, the formal use of our names seems too rigid among friends. Perhaps it’s time to address each other by Eleanor and Mary?”
She clasps her hands together. “Oh, Mrs. Bethune—I mean, Mary.” We share a laugh again. “I’d be honored.”
“Well then, ‘Eleanor’ and ‘Mary’ it is.”
We clink our glasses and laugh again. Then Eleanor says, “I’m so glad you took this detour north from Washington before going home to Florida.”
“Any excuse to come to the city. Who doesn’t love New York?”
“As the governor’s wife, I’m glad to hear that.” The waiter serves our meal, and once he steps away, Eleanor leans toward me. Her eyes twinkle a little more brightly as she says, “Especially since there is something particular I wanted to speak with you about today. When we last met, I’d planned to discuss ways in which we might work together.”
I nod. “I’ve considered the same thing. Maybe an education project? Focusing on young women, perhaps?”
She beams. “Yes, a project focused on education might be just the ticket someday. But in the meantime”—she pauses for a second—“there’s something else I’m excited to share with you.”
I fold my hands, curious about what she might propose.
Eleanor says, “For a long time now, I’ve wondered about the Republican Party and whether they’re meeting their responsibilities to the colored people of this country. It’s certainly no longer the party Abraham Lincoln represented, and that’s why I’ve never been able to understand why the Democratic Party hasn’t tried to appeal to colored voters. We have so much to offer.”
My smile begins to fade. Does she really not know that while some Republicans may ignore us, many of the men and women in her party go far beyond that and hold appalling views of Negroes?
She plows ahead, unaware of my diminishing enthusiasm. “My husband shares my concerns about the colored population, and as the governor of New York, he has made inroads into helping Negroes during these hard economic times. If he runs for president, he’s already laid out a national plan following along the same lines.”
Her words tumble out so fast that I wonder if she’s registering my reaction at all. I press back in my chair.
“His plan will uplift everyone,” she continues. “He won’t be like those politicians in the past who say what Negroes want to hear and then, once elected, renege on those promises. My husband will give his word and stand by his commitments.”
She pauses only to catch her breath. “That’s why, when he and I discussed the colored vote, I told him that, if he wants to win this election and help everyone in this country, there was only one person he should speak to—Mary McLeod Bethune!” Her smile is so wide, I can see every large tooth. “I told him you—the most esteemed and persuasive colored leader—are the one he needs to speak to. Then, once you understand what the Democrats can do for our colored population, you’ll want to join our campaign.”
Eleanor sits back and smiles as if she’s just given the speech of her life. Her gaze is on me, but she doesn’t really see me. She is in the thrall of her own idea, so she misses the fact that my arms are folded, my smile has faded, and I’m silent.
I am shocked when she continues, “Now, at your convenience, of course, Mary”—she smiles at the use of my name—“we’ll begin by setting up a meeting for you to meet my husband and his staff. I already told them they must do whatever you say and give you whatever you ask for.”
When Eleanor quiets, I nod slowly, but my expression and stance do not waver. Comprehension finally flickers across her face, and her bright eyes dim, and deep lines surface on her forehead.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
I am still reeling and unsure where to begin. “You’re asking me to consider campaigning for a Democratic candidate?”
“Yes,” she answers, although now her voice falters.
I cannot believe the timing of this moment. Eleanor and I have just declared ourselves friends, close enough for me to ask her to call me Mary. Yet, after this little speech, I wonder if she has ever seen me.
Pushing my half-eaten plate aside, I lean forward. I want to be close enough so that Mrs. Roosevelt will not only hear but fully understand how much—and why—she has offended me.