Washington, D.C.
April 22, 1941
I greet my friend on the driveway with an embrace and usher her upstairs to my sitting room as if this was an ordinary visit in ordinary times. Inquiring after the two Alberts as well as her health as we walk, I act as though we’re about to sit down for tea and catch up on each other’s news. Yet the topics we will cover today won’t consist of many personal tidbits.
“Good morning, Miss Thompson,” Mary greets Tommy, who’s been stationed at my sitting room desk, poring through letters. Tommy stands, and the two women shake hands. They’ve grown close over the years.
“Jeepers, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Tommy? Everyone else does,” Tommy mock-scolds.
“Probably as many times as the First Lady has asked you to call her Eleanor. And you still call her Mrs. Roosevelt,” Mary says with a wink, and the two women laugh.
Tommy excuses herself, and a White House maid enters with the tea service I requested and the pastries I know Mary likes. Teacups in hand, we settle onto opposite ends of my deep, cushiony sofa. “I think I know what’s brought you here today,” I say.
“You mean beyond our usual plans to utterly alter the country through equality for all?” Mary says, and we laugh.
Allowing our laughter to recede, I say, “I’m guessing it’s about this March on Washington that Mr. Randolph has planned.” The rumors have been percolating for weeks, and I’m alarmed. A large-scale march could erupt in bloodshed.
“Exactly. I wanted you to hear the news from me.”
“What news?”
“I am going to have to back the march. There has been a groundswell of support for it, and people are energized by the thought of this mass nonviolent protest. I will not release any public statements—our enemies would have a field day with that—but I will be bolstering it in practice.”
I expected a thorny discussion, but not this. I’m astounded. The press and Democrats will interpret the March as anti-Roosevelt, because it condemns the status quo for Negroes and calls specifically for Franklin to do more. Bolstering it? “Wh-what do you mean?”
“Next week, I’ll be announcing that my annual NCNW conference will take place from June 28 to June 30 in Washington, D.C., which will enable attendees to easily attend the march on July 1.”
A strange blend of fear, anger, and empathy takes hold of me. Then an almost familiar sense of abandonment crashes over me, and I choke out an accusation of sorts. “So you want to make it easy for thousands of colored women to participate in the march.”
“Yes,” Mary answers quietly, then stares down at the floor as if the rug’s pattern is of utmost interest. “If I do not sanction the march in this way, I fear it will do more harm.”
“Funny,” I respond, my tone unexpectedly sharp, “I was thinking that supporting the march would do more damage to all our progress than if we stopped it. The only thing such a stance might benefit is maintaining your dominant role with your Federal Council.”
Even though I sound angry, I mostly feel hurt. We have worked together for so long—how could Mary take an action that would cast aspersions on my efforts? Does she not have faith that I’ve done my utmost for the cause of civil rights? I’ve always thought of Mary as the one person in my life not propelled by personal desires and the things I can give her. But it seems as though I haven’t done enough, and once more, I am alone.
We sit in silence for an unbearably long and heavy moment. Since some initial missteps, Mary and I have been in sync about our objectives and strategy, and now that we are misaligned, the distance between us feels vast.
“Eleanor, I am sorry,” she finally says, her voice heavy with remorse. “I do not want this, and believe me, if I thought that we could slow or halt Randolph’s freight train, I would try. In fact, I did try. I offered to pursue the Federal Council’s goals behind the scenes in lieu of a march, but they are tired of relying on my connections with you and your husband to make change. In fact, they called it pandering, so Robert and Bill—and even Walter, if you can believe it—rejected my overtures. If I persist in my anti-march stance, then I’ll be alienated from the Federal Council forever, and all the private work you and I do will have no support from my community.”
Tears of anger and hurt stream down my face. Mary scoots down the sofa to embrace me, but I do not soften. She says, “I apologize. The last thing I wanted was for this news to upset you. I am behind you and the president—not against you—and I know what allies you’ve been. That’s why I wanted to tell you myself, so that you’d understand I’m positioning myself this way only to walk a necessary narrow line, and only temporarily.”
I steady myself and try to put myself in her shoes. “Mary, I realize you’re in an impossible bind and feel pressure to push for governmental change, but I wonder if supporting the march really is your only option. You know the message it sends. And you can imagine how it makes me feel—” Before I can finish, she interjects.
“I feel terrible.”
“I do, too,” I say with a sigh, and give myself a minute to think all this through. “I apologize that I took your news so personally. I realize that you and the Federal Council are only fighting for what you are rightly owed. It saddens me that I couldn’t make enough of a difference, and I’m upset because I feel like Sisyphus. We keep pushing that boulder up the hill, and time and again, it rolls back on us. The progress we’ve managed to orchestrate with jobs or education or training or support isn’t enough—or there is awful retaliation to it. But I have no right to these tears. Look how much you’ve suffered and how long you’ve been in this fight.”
“I understand why you feel hurt. Just because you’re white doesn’t mean you can’t get angry or disheartened by racism.” She tsks me in a comforting way that’s almost maternal. “I just wish it was all different. And I wish I had another choice.”
“These tears aren’t just about you, Mary. I feel so alone in this White House, just as you must feel sometimes with the Federal Council.” Mary nods, and I continue. “The malicious gaze of Steve Woodburn is always upon me, judging me and forcing all eyes on war, war, war. Even the day of the inauguration, the Lend-Lease aid for Britain became the primary focus, and now we are facing Allied defeats in the Middle East, labor strikes across the country delaying defense production, seizure of Axis assets, and constant air raids on Great Britain. And while I do understand we could be fighting for global freedom, I also know that we still need to fight for the rights of our own citizens here at home.” I pause for breath, stopping myself before blurting out the possible jeopardy to Mary’s precious NYA. It is a bridge that Mary and I will have to cross, but perhaps not today.
Changing tack, I say, “Sometimes I wonder if we are throwing ourselves into this war because it’s one way of ceasing this endless Depression.”
“Boy, I wish you were the one in the Oval Office,” Mary says, chortling to herself as she reaches for a pastry.
I relax. Between the chuckle and the sweet treat, the air has cleared. I may not like what she’s doing with the march, but we can move forward as we always have.
“Louis Howe used to say that, too,” I say offhandedly. “He used to say that he’d make me president after Franklin was through with government. I often wonder what would have happened if Louis hadn’t died.”
“I bet you miss him,” Mary says softly.
“I do. Every day.”
Thinking of Louis and his faith in me, my resolve returns. I wipe my eyes with the lace handkerchief I keep in my sleeve and say, “Well, that’s enough of the self-pity and blubbering and making you feel guilty for something you shouldn’t. Never mind my hurt feelings—my biggest fear is that, if the march goes forward, violence will result. I understand the Federal Council believes the march is the only way, but I am wondering what I can do, Mary, to help stop it without tainting you by association. What will it take?”