Washington, D.C.
February 18, 1943
It’s been five months since my last visit, and during that time, there were so many days when I wondered if I’d ever return to the White House. Four months ago, I had another life-threatening attack, this time my asthma. I was compromised so severely, it was doubtful I’d ever reenter public life, let alone travel.
Only the dedication of my team of doctors, the tears and prayers of my son and grandson, and four months of actual, real rest fostered enough recovery for me to return on this day.
Tightening the fur collar around my neck, I take a few moments to study each detail of this beautiful building. Even though the temperature is biting, I don’t feel cold. I only feel grateful. Perhaps it’s my gratitude to be alive that warms me.
After a minute, I realize that Eleanor isn’t coming to greet me. Not that I blame her. The burden of this war remains great, and Eleanor’s presence on the world stage has been immense.
That little voice that’s been poking at me over the last months nags again. You’ve reached the end, Mary Jane. Your time in Washington has come to a close. Your friendship with Eleanor is over.
Even though I’m able to ignore that voice on most days and I try to silence it now, it’s hard to disregard. After all, the NYA has been defunded to the point of obsolescence, and the Federal Council has completely disbanded. I still have Bethune-Cookman and NCNW, but the truth is, my greatest professional accomplishments have come from my federal work.
So, if that time has ended, what place will I hold from this point forward? What and who will I be if I am not the First Lady of the Struggle?
After waving to Earl and the familiar faces of the other security guards, I make my way through the bustle of the White House hallways to Eleanor’s quarters. I am barely inside the door of her sitting room when my friend leaps to her feet.
“Mary!” she exclaims, and races toward me. My grin is wide as she wraps me in a hug. “Can you forgive me for not greeting you at your cab? I was finishing a call.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” I say, releasing a deep breath at her reception.
I’m not surprised Eleanor is busy. What does astonish me is that she’s found time to see me at all. While my life has been frozen, her life has moved on at lightning speed. Through her letters to me and newspaper accounts, I’ve been able to follow along with her successful trip to England, which included visits to the king and queen, the Churchills, and countless military bases; her ongoing national travel to raise awareness and support for women in the war effort; and many other crucial causes, especially equality.
With each of her trips and accomplishments, that little voice inside kept filling me with doubts, but as she leads me to the sofa, she seems just like herself. “Finally, we’re able to get together. I’m so relieved you’re healthy again.”
“You’ve been a busy woman.”
“Never too busy for my friends.” She squeezes my hand. “You gave us quite the scare.”
“I scared myself.” I chuckle. “But I’ve had some time to rest, and I’m fully recovered.”
Most of what I’ve said is true, though the coughing fits still come upon me often and my medication does not fully address that problem. However, I feel stronger than I have in a year.
“I hope you enjoyed those sweet treats I sent along from Mrs. Nesbitt,” she says with a mischievous tone.
“I did. But honestly, what I appreciated most were your updates. Without you, I would have felt even more on the periphery of life.”
“Oh, Mary, you don’t know how relieved I am that you’re well. So anything I did to speed that along was selfish. I needed my Mary back.”
Her words make my heart sing.
We talk about the two Alberts—how they were attentive but strict taskmasters during my illness, especially over the Christmas holidays. Both my son and grandson were adamant about enforcing the doctor’s orders that I not experience any stress. That meant not engaging with Eleanor’s letters too much. It was hard not to ask the many follow-up questions I had, but I obeyed. We then discuss how Albert Jr. will be graduating from Morehouse in a few months and is thinking of enlisting. And I get updates about her family, particularly how her boys are faring in the war.
“I am so happy we were able to put all of that FBI nonsense behind us,” she says.
“I was so grateful to receive your note. I can’t imagine what you had to say or do to get the Justice Department to tell the FBI to end their formal investigation of me. Thank you so much, my friend.”
As she pats my hand, I don’t tell Eleanor that I suspect my file is not completely closed. Congressman Dies has continued his accusations against me. And whenever the FBI is asked about me, the answer continues to be that they cannot confirm or deny my status—which means that I am indeed still on their list.
“Now that you’re back, are you willing and able to get to work? Because I’ve got a project for us,” she says, her eyes shining.
If I were fifty pounds lighter and forty years younger, I would leap from my chair and dance a jig. Eleanor still sees us as a team.
“Are you kidding?” I say. “I’ve been waiting, especially after all that’s happening—or not happening, I should say—with the NYA.”
“I know,” she says. “But as important as the NYA was, and all the work you did there, I have an idea for us that can be just as important.” The pitch of her voice is high, which always happens when Eleanor is excited. “You remember when you put in motion Franklin’s signing of that public law in 1939? That law that allowed for Air Corps training programs for Negroes, especially at colored colleges?”
“How could I forget?” I remember the day when Robert Weaver and Bill Hastie came to my hospital room and I tried to convince them of the significance of that law. Many colored colleges went on to use that law as a way to implement pilot training programs.
“I wasn’t sure if you remembered. You’ve been the force behind so many laws and changes, it’s possible to forget a few,” she teases, making me feel as if no time at all has passed between us. “So, do you remember the 99th Pursuit Squadron at the Tuskegee Institute?”
I nod. “Yes, they were created right after Pearl Harbor. It was just one of our many training projects.” While I will always look at the Tuskegee squadron as a success, like the other training projects it had its pitfalls.
The programs remain segregated, and the conditions at the Negro training sites are as poor as everywhere else in the military. Bill Hastie, as the aide to the secretary of war, has done all he can to improve the situation at Tuskegee, but to no avail. It’s been frustrating, but I prefer to keep my focus on the fact that these programs allowed Negroes to be trained as pilots and that Tuskegee was one of the best.
“Well,” Eleanor says, “I just received a letter from Tuskegee director Patterson informing me that no one will send the colored pilots into battle, even though they are ready and willing.”
“What?” I thought she had good news for me. “We’re at war! Why wouldn’t the country want every able-bodied and well-trained man available?”
“Oh, Mary,” Eleanor says, “we know why. Everything in this country is about race. Even during war.”
“It’s a shame, because those Tuskegee pilots are fully trained.”
“They are beyond fully trained. They’ve been practicing and preparing for the better part of a year. These colored pilots may be the best-trained unit of pilots in America.”
“And yet, because of the color of their skin . . .” I trail off.
“It’s inexplicable to me and demoralizing to the men, but I believe we have a tool to change this . . .” Eleanor lets her words hang in the air. “Just a few months ago, Franklin signed a new executive order that allows colored men to register for the draft without any restrictions—including the Air Corps.”
The opportunity here registers almost instantly. “So that executive order will get those young men out of Tuskegee and into the sky because the Air Corps can no longer ban them from flying based on race.”
Eleanor gives me a toothy grin. “Exactly. But I think what we need to do first is draw attention to these Tuskegee pilots. If the country knows who these men are and the extensive nature of their training, then when people learn that their skills are not being utilized when they’re needed the most, everyone in the country will clamor to get those young men into the air and in the war.”
I feel a rush of energy and enthusiasm. Eleanor has filled me with purpose again. “I’d love to tackle this project with you.”
She grins. “Even though the New Deal agencies have been eliminated and the Federal Council has dispersed, you and I can make this one big splash to show that transformation continues to be possible.”
“I’d like nothing more.”
Eleanor claps. “Perfect! So, fancy taking a trip with me to Tuskegee?”
“When should I pack my bag?”