I arrived at the northwest gate of the White House at nine o’clock on a typically hot, muggy Washington morning in August 1947. Trying to appear composed and nonchalant, while anything but, I announced to the uniformed Secret Service officer that I was there for the president’s news conference. I had gone over this in my head for two hours since waking to music from a clock radio at seven o’clock and riding a street car the three miles from my apartment to Fourteenth and G Streets Northwest, then walking among office workers and tourists the two blocks to the executive mansion at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
“I must not be late,” I’d repeated too many times as I waited impatiently through each stop of the trolley before arriving at mine. I had heard that no one enters these conferences late, and even if someone wanted to, the Secret Service would have locked the doors so that no latecomers could enter. So I had given myself an hour for transportation and an hour for orientation before the scheduled start time of ten o’clock. The guard at the gate, although stern faced, was friendly enough as I fumbled in my purse for the precious White House press pass that I was using for the very first time.
“You’re too early for the press conference,” he advised, taking the pass from my hand and scrutinizing it, comparing the likeness on the card with the woman in front of him. “It doesn’t begin for another hour or so.” Despite my outward coolness and calm, he had obviously identified me as a newcomer to the White House press corps since my face was not familiar. No matter how much I tried to impress him with my composure, I wasn’t fooling anybody because everyone will admit that his or her first adventure at the White House is an exciting experience.
I laid it all on the line. “May I go in and wait? I’m afraid if I leave, I might not get back in time. I don’t want to be late for the conference.” Apparently amused at my anxiety, the guard tried to restrain a smile as he motioned for me to enter the grounds.
I proceeded around the circular driveway to the west portal of the White House, where I was stopped by another uniformed guard seated at a desk just inside the doorway. Once again I proffered my credentials and was allowed to enter the spacious lobby.
A large, round table with fancy carved legs occupied the center of this great room. Overstuffed chairs and couches lined the walls. The expensive-looking furniture, upholstered in red and black leather, showed signs of long, hard wear, with sagging cushions and frayed armrests. A few newsmen, who I later learned were regularly assigned White House reporters, sat around glancing at the morning papers. Some puffed on pipes or smoked cigarettes while others sipped coffee from paper cups as they exchanged views on the issues of the day. Attractive, well-dressed girls (secretaries and aides in the press office) darted in and out of the lobby, occasionally exchanging a few pleasantries with the loitering newsmen.
I sat there alone and apparently unnoticed, taking in all the activity while glancing now and then at my newspaper. If anyone wondered who I was, or why I was there, they made no effort to find out. As time passed, other reporters began to drift in, indicating the time for the conference was drawing near. Some of the reporters had met me on Capitol Hill and came over to exchange a word or two. Some wanted to know what I was doing there. When I proudly responded that I had been accredited to the White House press corps, they extended a casual congratulation, implying this was no big thing.
To them it was nothing unusual because white reporters with reputation and status had always been accredited to the White House. But for me it represented progress for my race, recognition of the black press, consideration of women reporters, and a personal honor because I was the very first woman of my race ever to receive such accreditation. I appreciated and cherished this honor even though I felt that I had actually earned it the hard way—through strenuous preparation, perseverance, hard work, acceptable qualifications, persistence, a heroic fight, and proven ability.
As the hour for the conference drew nearer, the reporters began to drift toward the door leading into the president’s Oval Office. At a given time, the door swung open and newsmen pushed and scrounged like herded cattle through the open doorway and down the narrow hall, elbowing their way into the office, pushing and shoving to get as near as possible to the president’s desk. Since newsmen had to stand throughout the conference in those days, it was apparent that each was trying to grab a choice spot so as to get a good view or to be seen and recognized by the president if the reporter raised his hand for a question.1
President Truman stood to greet reporters, gave a brief statement on some pressing issue of the day, then made himself available for questions. After half an hour the conference was abruptly dismissed with a brisk, “Thank you, Mr. President!” spoken by a dapper, black-haired reporter. At the same time, he dashed from the room, practically running into everybody in his way, and sprinted through the lobby like a professional track star, into the pressroom on the opposite side, where he immediately closed himself tightly into a tiny telephone booth.
Later I learned that this man was Merriman Smith of United Press International, who, because of his excellent work and years of seniority, had earned for himself the title of dean of White House correspondents and had acquired the responsibility of dismissing all presidential press conferences. The well-known Pulitzer Prize winner kept this title and performed this task until his suicide in April 1970.
As Smith scurried through the White House lobby on that particular day, a few other reporters were right on his heels racing to see who could be the first to get his story on the wire. These “scoop-seekers,” I learned, were all wire-service reporters or representatives of daily papers that were nearing their deadlines. Those who were not pressed for time scattered in different directions, making their way to their respective bureaus or to other assignments.
I took a taxicab to the Capitol, where I had spent most of my time since becoming accredited to the Senate and House Press Galleries a few months earlier. As the doors of the special press elevator to the Senate gallery closed behind me, it occurred to me that on this day I had reached a goal that I’d set for myself many years before when I vowed that someday I would reach the top in my chosen profession of journalism. I had just about hit the mark. One can’t get much higher in the newspaper field than a Capitol and White House correspondent. But even then I had no idea of the many opportunities that would eventually open up to me as the only reporter of my sex and race working from this vantage point. Neither could I ever have imagined the many experiences—both pleasant and unpleasant—that would come my way. One thing was certain: I was far from the ramshackle, unpainted, one-room schoolhouse tucked away at the edge of a scrubby, unsightly thicket on a red clay hill in rural Logan County, Kentucky. I couldn’t help but marvel, “You’ve come a long way, sister.”