Washington, D.C.
September 29, 1932
When I step into Gray’s Café, I’m a little surprised. This upscale, Negro-owned restaurant, just steps away from the Lincoln Theatre, is one of my favorite spots on U Street, even if I have often had to wait for one of the gold-and-black-clothed tables. But today, the eatery is only half-full, even though it’s the lunch hour.
I sigh. It’s a sign of the times. The economic downturn has come to Black Broadway and even one of its upmarket businesses. I spot my friend Mary Church Terrell sitting in the center of the room and I make my way to her. Mary, the founder of the largest colored women’s club, the National Association of Colored Women’s Clubs, has been a friend since I was in my twenties and the president of the Florida chapter of NACW.
We greet each other with a hug, after which the waitress is quick to take our orders. Gray’s Café is known for its down-home Southern cuisine, and I already know what I want: the creamed chicken over biscuits. Mary orders the chicken and dumplings. And of course we both have an order of their specialty, Southern spoon bread.
We chat for a few minutes as the waitress returns with tea. Mary catches me up on what’s happening with the women’s club and I tell her why I’m in Washington—another fundraiser for Bethune-Cookman.
When our food is served, we bow our heads to bless our plates, and then Mary exclaims, “Let me tell you how tickled I was to see your name in Ida Tarbell’s newspaper article as one of the ‘Fifty Most Distinguished Women of Our Day.’ Congratulations.”
“Thank you, but I’m sure that honor isn’t why you invited me to lunch.”
“Always so forthright, Mary.” She laughs, but then the corners of her lips curve downward. She glances over her shoulders to see if anyone is listening, but the tables closest to us are empty. So she says, “I’m worried about Hoover’s chances of winning reelection.”
I nod, putting down my teacup. “I haven’t been able to rally the voters this time. How can I get people to care about Hoover when half of all Negroes can’t feed their families and are on the cusp of being evicted from their homes?”
“Times are terribly hard, but people have to understand,” Mary pleads, “the stock market crash was not Hoover’s fault.”
“That’s not the way the voters see it.” I shake my head. “You’ve seen the newspaper headlines—‘In Hoover We Trusted and Now We Are Busted.’ ”
Mary groans. “When will the people realize the president is not God?”
“People know he’s not responsible for the Depression. But Americans expect him to get us out of it, and that’s not happening,” I say.
“Well, we’ll just have to put together a strategy to change people’s minds. Like we did with Hoover’s last election.”
I shake my head. “Hoover himself hasn’t made this easy. Besides the economy, he made an enemy of colored folks when he nominated John Parker to the Supreme Court. Can you imagine if the Senate had confirmed someone to the Supreme Court who called Negro participation in politics evil?”
She waves her hand. “There have been worse on the court before, and I’m convinced Hoover didn’t know about Parker’s racist comments. My goodness, this is America. It’s hard to keep track of all the horrible things white people say. But it’ll be far worse for Negroes with a Democrat in the White House.”
Mary’s words remind me of what Eleanor said during our last meeting. The memory makes me want to share that conversation, but I hesitate. Although I remain miffed, I still consider Eleanor a friend, and I am reluctant to betray her confidences.
But my hesitation lasts only a moment. Mary has always been more than a friend; she’s been an adviser. Even though I feel somewhat uncomfortable because Eleanor and I have made peace, what we discussed is relevant to this conversation.
I put down my fork and say, “The Roosevelts believe that a Democrat in the White House will be very good for Negroes. Their campaign is aggressively courting the colored vote.”
“I know.” She leans forward as if she’s about to share a secret. “Have you heard about Robert Vann and how he’s working with them now?” She shakes her head as if the thought of the editor of the Pittsburgh Courier crossing to the other side disgusts her. “He’s even going around saying that it’s time for Negroes to turn around that picture of Lincoln to face the wall! Can you believe that?”
I look Mary straight in her eyes. “The Roosevelts are working with Robert—and they tried to work with me.”
Mary recoils. “What?”
“Eleanor Roosevelt asked me to join their campaign.” I reference the conversation and the now-active presidential campaign; Governor Roosevelt was nominated at the Democratic National Convention this summer. “Saying she asked me to join is too generous. Mrs. Roosevelt came to me and assumed I would join their campaign just because she asked.”
Her eyes are wide. “I didn’t even realize you knew Eleanor Roosevelt.”
I can’t tell if Mary is appalled or impressed. “I met her through her mother-in-law a few years back. We’ve stayed in touch, and during our last meeting in New York, she made her assumptions.”
Mary leans forward, her eyes and mouth wide with astonishment. “No!”
I nod. “She had an entire plan without soliciting my input; I was just expected to follow.”
“Oh.” Mary nods as if she knows what I’m talking about. “I’ve been in more of those situations than I care to remember.”
“I have as well, but this was unexpected. Mrs. Roosevelt is a friend and a good person. She’s shown a genuine interest in the plight of our people.” Mary’s eyebrows rise, but she stays quiet, so I continue, “I doubt she realized how presumptuous she sounded, how presumptuous it was for her to assume she knew what was best for colored people all over the world.”
“Ah yes, the white woman who’s going to save the Negro race.”
“Or the white man.”
“Indeed,” Mary agrees. “So in all of your conversations, this was the first time you’ve run into this sort of exchange with Mrs. Roosevelt?”
“Yes. Circumstances forced us to talk a bit about race when she invited me to tea at the Mayflower.” I take a sip of tea and glance at Mary over the rim of the cup, knowing she will be tickled.
“The Mayflower?” Her eyes are wide at the thought of me at the famous hotel. “And you went?”
“Of course. I was invited, wasn’t I?” I say with a shrug.
Mary’s laughter relieves the tension. “That’s why I love you, Mary. So what did you tell her? I’m hoping you won’t join her and that you’ll still support President Hoover.”
“Of course I’m with Hoover.” My response comes quickly. “I will continue to support the president.”
“Good,” Mary says with a curt nod. “And I hope you corrected her ‘presumption.’ We don’t need white people to save us; we just need white people to be fair and enact laws that guarantee equality.”
“It’s as simple as that, isn’t it?” I say.
“It should be, but I’m beginning to believe it’s impossible for many white people to see us as equal, no matter our achievements.” Then she gives me a pointed stare. “Even if they say we’re friends.”
Her words make me flinch, even as I nod along. Although I criticized Eleanor just minutes before, this idea about her doesn’t ring true. Or maybe it does—does she see me as her equal?
“I hope Mrs. Roosevelt understands that she can stand beside you, but there is no need for her to walk in front of you,” Mary adds. “And if Mrs. Roosevelt ever gets confused again, tell her to read Miss Tarbell’s article. A distinguished woman is never a follower—she is always a leader—and you, Mary, are a distinguished woman. You and Mrs. Roosevelt must lead together, or not at all.”