Baltimore, Maryland
May 28, 1940
It occurs to me that I have become a different sort of victim of racism. Not the overt sort of casualty, as with a lynching. Nor the lesser sort of injury, as is often seen in the economic and social oppression in the colored community. No, I have been made ill by the constant, heavy toll on my body of fighting for equality against the thick, reinforced wall of prejudice. It’s a beating I’ve taken every day of my sixty-five years through the words and actions of others.
I’m not sure what caused my eventual break. It could have been the strain as I worked to save my college. Or maybe it was the worry over Steve Woodburn’s threat. Even though we did not see the negative ramifications Woodburn warned about, the weight of that distress could have compounded the damage that the struggle had already taken on my body.
“Are you comfortable, Mother Dear?” my son asks as he fluffs the pillow behind me in my hospital bed.
For the past two months, I’ve been at Johns Hopkins Hospital. I needed a crucial sinus surgery after having a life-threatening bronchitis and sinus infection. However, my weight threatened my ability to survive such a procedure, so I’ve been locked away in this room, where the doctors have been monitoring my diet.
“Very comfortable,” I tell Albert.
“No pain?”
“None, and, Albert, can you stop hovering, please? It was just a minor operation.”
“Mother Dear, you’d be the first to tell your students that ‘minor operation’ is an oxymoron.”
“My time is almost up here, son. One more week, so you needn’t worry anymore. What time does your train back to Daytona leave?”
Albert’s grin is so bright, I have to fight to keep my smile at bay. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“You’ve been gone too long. That funeral home isn’t going to run itself.”
He chuckles, and I’m filled with such gratitude. For the last three and a half years, we’ve been able to speak without arguments about his business because he’s doing so well.
“You can go. The surgery is over and I’m fine.” I make a big display of huffing, but the truth is, I’m grateful my son took the time to be with me.
“Just make sure you eat your dinner,” he says, pushing the bed tray closer to me, then hugs me before he kisses me goodbye.
When I’m alone, I look at my dinner—a plate covered with a teaspoon of mashed potatoes, six green beans, and a boiled chicken thigh with skin so wrinkled, that chicken had to have been more sickly than me. This diet has nearly killed me faster than any bronchitis attack ever could.
Pushing the food tray to the side, I snuggle back into the pillows. What a time to be hospitalized. The world was already falling apart before my illness, and the disintegration has accelerated. War rages in Europe, and as America positions itself for possible intervention, Congress has approved increased military spending. This means even more New Deal programming will be cut.
And what that will mean for the country’s most vulnerable citizens scares me. My programs are being trimmed down to nothingness. Until these last few days, I’ve been too ill to gather the key Federal Council members together, but today that begins anew. I am strong enough to set this crooked road straight.
Just when I have that thought, there is a knock on my door, and I call out, “Come in.”
Robert Weaver peeks inside. “You awake, Mary?”
“I am,” I say, forcing my voice to sound strong. “And I’m delighted you could make it.”
“I’m happy you’re well enough to have me. And I hope it’s okay that I brought another friend.”
I tilt my head in surprise when Bill Hastie steps in behind him. “It’s good to see you looking so well, Mary,” Bill says, his voice as soft as usual. He hands me a bouquet of tulips and magnolias.
“How lovely,” I say as I inhale the flowers’ fragrance. “Would you mind putting them on the table?”
He has to rearrange the vases already there to find room for his bunch. “My bouquet seems downright paltry next to these. Did your son give you all of these flowers?”
I point to the enormous array of yellow blooms in the center. “Albert gave me those. The others came from the White House gardens.”
Bill exchanges a glance with Robert, but I just motion to the chairs opposite my hospital bed. “Please have a seat.”
When they do, Robert speaks first. “So, you’ve had quite a stay.”
“Would have been better at a resort.” I shift in the bed. “I cannot wait to go home. I’m being released Sunday.”
“Well,” Robert starts, “sometimes these kinds of setbacks are blessings. An opportunity to get the rest you need.”
“I’m getting rest, but there’s still work to be done. That’s why I asked you to come visit with me. I feel like we have to fortify the Federal Council in light of all the budgetary cuts coming. We have to unite to protect the agencies we represent.”
The men glance at each other again. I wait for one of them to say something, but when they don’t, I continue, “I’m hoping to enlist your help by having the two of you arrange a Federal Council meeting for this upcoming Monday at the NCNW town house. Now, I’ve started an agenda and—”
When the men once again look at each other, I can no longer ignore it. “I feel like you two are having a conversation and I’m not included. What’s going on?”
Robert finally stammers, “Well, Mary . . . about those meetings—I’m afraid we won’t be able to get everyone together that way again.”
“Why not?” I snap, although my frustration isn’t meant for Robert. It’s because he’s spoken aloud what I’ve feared—without my leadership, the Council has already crumbled.
“The group has all but disbanded, Mary,” Bill says. I lean forward to hear him better. “And it started long before you were hospitalized. Haven’t you noticed?”
“What do you mean?” I say, although of course I noticed enthusiasm had waned not long after the president’s reelection. At each meeting there were fewer attendees, until one Friday night, I sat in my parlor alone.
“Well,” Bill answers, “most of the men broke off into smaller groups, focusing on their own interests.”
I shake my head hard. “This isn’t the time for selfish interests. We must be aligned or we will lose all we’ve gained.”
“But are our interests the same, Mary?” Robert asks. “No one questions your commitment and desire to see the New Deal policies work for Negroes. The question is, does the president share that commitment?”
Bill continues, “The president promised so much, Mary—everything from securing voting rights to jobs to better housing and education for Negroes. But what has he delivered? Yes, federal appointments have been made. But just how many times do we have to recap this story? We had no power before, and now, with the war looming, half of us have been reassigned to positions with even less authority.” I cross my arms, but that doesn’t faze Bill. “That’s why there’s no motivation among the Federal Council to keep meeting. It feels like a waste of time. We’re waiting for empty promises to be fulfilled.”
“But the president has done many things. Yes, I’ve been disappointed with the lack of authority you’ve been given, but look at some of the things that have been implemented. Like Public Law 18.”
Both men nod when I mention the law President Roosevelt signed last year mandating that the Army Air Corps train Negroes, with a special focus on colored colleges.
“That alone should keep us encouraged,” I continue. “Think about how big that is. Negroes will be able to have military careers and then advance beyond working in the kitchen or other menial positions.”
I wait for them to respond, but it seems not even something as impactful as that public law impresses them. “Listen, young men, real change takes time.” How many times have I said those words to a young Negro man or woman?
“While the public law is good, Mary, we need much more than that, and we’ve given President Roosevelt more than enough time,” Bill says, unwavering. “But like the presidents before him, Roosevelt makes promises to get our votes, and then . . . nothing.”
“So, what is your solution?” I ask. “To walk away? That doesn’t make sense when I have a relationship with the president and First Lady . . .”
Bill holds up his hands. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Mary, but part of the problem is your relationship with the Roosevelts.” The quietness of his voice does not soften his words.
“It’s because of Mrs. Roosevelt that we’re in the position we’re in today,” I snap.
“I would agree with you there,” Bill says. “Your friendship with Mrs. Roosevelt has hindered the Council rather than helped it.”
I breathe deeply, feeling as if my sinuses and my lungs are closing. “How—how has my friendship with the First Lady hindered us?” I demand to know.
Bill leans forward. “After all the work we did for Roosevelt, after all the votes we gave him, when nothing changed, when we were given no more responsibility, when he didn’t address voting rights or jobs or better housing, you didn’t push him.”
I am aghast. “Push the president? How was I supposed to do that?”
He shrugs and sits back. “You stood in front of us at that Council meeting professing to be our voice and our advocate because you had access to the Roosevelts. But not enough has come of that, and many believe that’s because you’re not only too soft but you’ve even pandered to the Roosevelts.”
I gasp. “Who thinks this?”
Bill holds up his hands. “I’m not going to name any names, because that’s not what’s important.”
I turn my stare on Robert. It is surprising that Bill has been the one doing the talking, while Robert, usually the most outspoken, has stayed quiet. Is that because he disagrees with his friend?
I ask him, “How do you feel about this?”
“Well, I did think we’d be further along because of your relationship with the Roosevelts.”
Is that all he has to say? All I want to do is jump out of this bed and shake these men. How can they be so blind? We may not have made the huge strides that they’d hoped for, but steady progress is being made nonetheless. Young people across the country have positions in libraries and public offices. Colored folks in rural areas are working on farms and in construction. Colored girls have jobs cooking and sewing and as nurses. This is more than has ever been achieved.
And I have pushed the president. I think about that meeting in Hyde Park. I think about the Blue Book. I have pushed the president and his wife to the edge. Nothing more would be accomplished if I stormed into the White House demanding action. My God, I would be escorted out, never to be invited back.
Taking a deep breath, I steady my voice. “There is no need for us to debate this point any further. What can I do to bring us together and move us forward? Because we need the collective power we bring to the table now more than ever.”
Bill shrugs. “What can any of us do? Even if you agreed to be more aggressive with the Roosevelts, we don’t have anything to bargain with. The president has already served his two terms, so we can’t negotiate with our votes.” This young man is wrong about so much—including the assumption that the president isn’t running again. Through Eleanor, I know that President Roosevelt is considering an unprecedented third term because he wants to make his social programs and policies part of the fabric of this country.
I can’t disclose that, though, so I say, “Well, I’m not ready to give up. Even with the little time we have left, we can unite and together push the president. But it makes no sense to do nothing.”
The room is church-quiet until Robert finally says, “You know what? Everyone on the Council loves you, Mary. You’ve been a beacon of light in this struggle, showing us what’s possible. So we’ll make some telephone calls and let you know what we can do.” He glances at Bill, and together they nod.
I thank them for this, and then they kiss me farewell. Once I’m alone, I consider our conversation. No matter what they say, I am not done. Contrary to their claims of softness, there is more I can accomplish with President Roosevelt, especially if he chooses to run again. He will need the Negro vote if he wants a third term. That alone gives me, and every Negro in this country, a power we’ve never had before.