New York, New York
December 16, 1933
The moment I step into the reception area of the NAACP office, I am swarmed by nearly a dozen young men and women, all calling out for “Mrs. Bethune.” Although I smile as they gather around me, Walter frowns. “Let’s give Mrs. Bethune some space. She’s here for a meeting, but perhaps she’ll say a few words on her departure.”
The smartly dressed women in day dresses with waists cinched by belts and the men in dark suits return to their seats behind the rows and rows of desks to toil away at the business of seeking justice in America. In the five years since Walter White has been the executive secretary, this staff has made headway. Whether it’s successfully blocking Supreme Court justice appointments or advocating for the nine young men in Alabama who were falsely accused of raping two white women, the NAACP is a force.
As Walter leads me to his office, I scold him, “You needn’t have been so harsh with those young folks.”
He chuckles. “If I let one person ask a question, I have to let a dozen. And we’d never have our meeting.” He gestures for me to take a seat in front of his desk. “I guess that’s the plight of the most famous Negro in the country.” He laughs, but I give him a smirk. He says, “I’m just glad our schedules aligned. I wasn’t sure I’d be back from Maryland before you left New York.”
“You were there for the George Armwood case?” When he nods, I add, “Please tell me you didn’t infiltrate any meetings.” From the time Walter started as an NAACP investigator sixteen years ago, he’s been involved in dangerous undercover work, gathering information from sources such as the Ku Klux Klan while posing as a white man.
“No, not this time,” he says, giving me that reassuring smile.
“Thank goodness. You’ve put your life on the line too many times, and tension must be higher than ever in Maryland.”
“When you’re a colored man in America, your life is always on the line.” He shrugs. Despite the shade of his skin and the bright blue of his eyes, he’s never wavered in his Negro identity. “But there’s no need to worry. You know only colored folks recognize colored folks. White people see only my white skin. That defines me.”
“As my dark skin defines me,” I respond.
“Exactly,” he says. “And because of that definition, we’ve both been underestimated. So don’t worry about me.”
“Walter, after what almost happened to you, you can never tell me not to worry,” I say, knowing his memory lands exactly where mine does.
In 1919, when Walter was a new investigator, he posed as a white journalist and traveled to Arkansas right after the Elaine Massacre. It took only days for him to cozy up to the white supremacists, and he collected a mountain of information to pass on to the authorities—including the names of the murderers. But Walter’s cover was blown, and he escaped in the darkness of night with the help of a trio of colored pastors. They rushed him to a train before the mob found him and “made sure he never passed for white again.”
“One close call in more than one hundred investigations. I’ll take those odds, and I’d say my work has been a success.”
“Certainly the NAACP is better for all you’ve done.”
“Getting better is always the goal. Now, if you can answer a question for me?”
“Of course. I figured there was a reason you invited me here.”
“Initially, I simply wanted to take you to lunch, but then this morning I saw this.” He holds up a copy of the Pittsburgh Courier, and I read the headline: MRS. MARY MCLEOD BETHUNE PRAISES PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT.
“Ah,” I say, sitting back in my chair. I knew this headline would be shocking, since my devout loyalty to the Republican Party is well-known. When Robert Vann’s newspaper reached out to me for comment, I praised President Roosevelt because he has done something that neither President Coolidge nor President Hoover dared. After Eleanor shared the clippings about George Armwood, the president made a bold move, giving a public radio statement to millions of Americans decrying lynching as a “vile” and “murderous” practice that must end. President Roosevelt’s action deserved my praise.
Since I’ve been working with Eleanor, I’ve reconsidered my politics. The more we collaborate, the more I realize I’m not loyal to a party—only to my people. Whichever party and president has policies to help Negroes, that’s the president I will support.
I say to Walter, “Have you read the article?”
“I have, and I was surprised. And I’m not the only one. I’ve had about six or seven calls just this morning. You and I have always been frank with each other, correct?”
I nod. “Absolutely. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Then I have to ask”—his tone turns stern—“what were you thinking? Why would you go on the record commending the president when he’s done nothing worthy of Mary McLeod Bethune’s praise?”
“I disagree, Walter; he made a public statement to America about lynching.” I sit up straight, prepared to defend my words. “No other American leader has ever done that.”
“He said a few negative words about lynching, and now, with your public support, President Roosevelt will probably think he’s done enough. But his watered-down statement will not suffice. Stopping lynching is why we’re here. And lynching, for me . . .” His voice lowers and drops off, and I know his mind has drifted to the time when he was thirteen years old and a violent mob attacked Negroes in the streets of Atlanta. He was caught up in the crowds that day and witnessed men being beaten and hung from lampposts. It was only because white men saw him as a white boy that he escaped.
“Mary,” he continues, returning to our conversation, “we cannot give an inch. Lynching won’t stop with words. I’ll give Roosevelt credit when the anti-lynching law is passed.”
“I agree, but I will not ignore progress, and that’s what I commended.”
“Progress? This is not progress! This is not action. Did you know Roosevelt still won’t meet with us, even though we call and send letters regularly? His excuse? He’s too busy with the New Deal to focus on social issues, and so colored men continue to be murdered in the streets.”
“I understand your skepticism, but I’ve learned the best way to move forward is to encourage Roosevelt for what he has done, not condemn him for what he hasn’t. And look at the action he has taken,” I keep on. “He’s created an environment in the New Deal that’s encouraging colored appointments in the federal government—Robert Vann, of course, but more recently Eugene Kinckle Jones was assigned to the Commerce Department; Robert Weaver will work directly for Clark Foreman; and that Harvard lawyer, Bill Hastie, will serve as legal investigator for the Department of the Interior. And that’s just the beginning of the federal appointments.”
“Having appointees is good, but don’t you think they should be functional?” His question is rhetorical, because he doesn’t pause. “Some of the men you’ve mentioned are frustrated. They do nothing all day but sit in those buildings, sometimes at desks in hallways, without being given any assignments!” Walter shakes his head like it’s all impossible. “So forgive me if I don’t share your high praise for the president. And this”—he picks up the newspaper, then tosses it aside—“won’t help as we try to push Roosevelt to action, especially about lynching.”
I let his words settle in the air before I say, “I’ve heard about the struggles of the men who’ve been appointed, but, Walter, having the men in those federal positions is progress. Just like the president’s words are progress.” When Walter rolls his eyes to the heavens, I chuckle, then, in all seriousness, add, “There’s something you should know. The president didn’t do all of this on his own. The First Lady pressured him to make those statements about lynching and to get more federal appointments for us.”
Walter frowns. “So the two of you are friends?” he asks, and I remember him asking that question seven months ago.
“We are,” I say, and then explain all that Eleanor and I have done over the past months. I’ve shared our friendship and partnership with very few, but today, I finally add Walter to that number.
“You’re really working with Eleanor Roosevelt?” He sounds skeptical and incredulous.
“Yes, and she’s an active ally. She wants this anti-lynching legislation passed as much as we do, and the president’s statement proves her commitment. He would have never spoken up that way, so publicly, so strongly, without the First Lady pushing him to do so.”
“It’s hard for me to imagine that she would care anything about this, especially with her privileged background.”
My eyes narrow. “Don’t be so limited in your thinking, my friend. People don’t have to be poor to care about the poor; people don’t have to be lynched to care about lynching.”
“Really, Mary?” he says at my preposterous statement.
“I think I’ve made my point.”
“Well, clearly, I understand that,” he says, his tone as sharp as mine now. But then he softens. “Even assuming that everything you’re saying about Mrs. Roosevelt is true, how do we know her husband will listen to her—beyond that little speech?”
After a pause, I say, “Maybe she should talk to you about this herself.”
His eyebrows rise. “I doubt the president will let me anywhere near the White House, even if I have an invitation from the First Lady.” He releases a rueful laugh.
“I don’t believe I said anything about the president or the White House. Why would you need to meet with Mrs. Roosevelt there when you can meet with her here? Right in the offices where the fight against lynching began.” Tapping my finger on his desk, I say, “Maybe this office is the road to the White House and will lead us all to the end that we so desperately want.”