Chicago, Illinois, July 1952
Franklin Jr. stood at the podium of the Democratic Convention in Chicago, a subdued sea of delegates filling the seats before him. “My friends,” he said, “on this tragic day we have eulogized a fallen hero and recognized that we must also move ahead with our party’s purpose, as the governor would have wished us to do. I give you Senator Russell Long, from the great state of Louisiana.”
Long had brokered the deals that held the South in place for Stevenson’s nomination. He had been the standard bearer for the southern bloc, both the Dixiecrats and the more progressive faction of which he was a member. Son of the populist governor and later senator Huey Long, who was assassinated in 1935, Long thought his father was smiling down on him as he took the microphone.
“Mr. Chairman, in light of the tragic turn of events that have taken one of our greatest leaders and our presidential nominee from us, I move that this convention vote immediately to nominate the woman from the great state of New York, who is known as the First Lady of the World. I place in nomination the name of the greatest First Lady this country has ever had, a humanitarian, diplomat, leader, and patriot who with her husband brought America to triumph after its darkest days, who has served with distinction in the United Nations, giving us the Magna Carta of our time, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights…our next president…Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt!”
The crowd rose, delegates alternating between cheers and sobs, overwhelmed by the historic moment and by the high drama of recent events. Eleanor stood by her seat in the front of the hall and faced the delegates, waving solemnly. She was reminded of the funeral cortege for Franklin, and the stricken faces that lined the street. Tears streamed down the faces of men and women as Rayburn’s somber voice asked, “Do I hear any other nominations?”
The delegates grew silent, with muffled words punctuating the air: “Thank you, Eleanor,” “We miss you, Adlai,” “God give us strength,” “It’s what Adlai would want,” “Franklin’s watching over us.”
“Hearing no other nominations,” Rayburn went on, “I ask that the roll of states be called.”
Tradition was being followed, but in a way that no one had seen before. Each state spoke of its grief at Adlai’s passing, and gave its assent to the historic moment that seemed almost lost in the shadow of tragedy—the Democrats were nominating a woman for president.
“The great state of North Carolina, in shock and mourning for the great Governor Stevenson, casts all ten votes for Eleanor Roosevelt.” So it went, and when Illinois was called, her delegates’ sobs reverberated through the hall, and like a contagion, blanketed the great room in grief once again. “Our governor…” the head of the Illinois delegation began, and he gasped, heedless of the tears rolling down his face. Charlie Redmont had been Stevenson’s aide and confidant, and he couldn’t go on. Another delegate stepped up and gently took the paper from Redmont’s hands, reading slowly the paean to Illinois’ fallen son.
Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi, and Georgia abstained from voting. The South Carolina delegation held, although Thurmond walked out and several delegates followed. Eleanor’s calculation had been right. Rayburn had worked through the night for the limited unity they had achieved that morning.
As Eleanor waited for the roll to end, she thought about what she had done in the last few hours. First she had called David, reaching him at his apartment in Manhattan and telling him the news without preliminaries. There had been a long silence from his end of the call. Finally, he spoke.
“Eleanor, I think this is a terrible idea. I think it is dangerous. Very dangerous. Maureen has told me about the FBI warnings to you. Do you have any idea how this will inflame those maniacs in the KKK?” He didn’t wait for her answer, but went on, his voice rising as he got more strident.
“And what about us? We will never get to see each other. You know what a candidate’s life is like. How will you stand it? The pressure and attacks and travel?”
“David, please, calm down, don’t yell at me. There are points in life where you have no choice.”
“That is not true, and you know it. You had a choice. You chose to run. Don’t act like your arm was twisted.”
“But it was. In a very real way, it was twisted, David. You must understand. We all have certain obligations, certain…”
“I’m sorry, Eleanor. I don’t understand. And I must go. I’m late to see a patient. Please take care. I suppose I will see you when you get to New York,” and he hung up.
She hadn’t cried. Instead, she felt numb. Was he using this as an excuse to end their affair? Even if he wasn’t, how much could he love her if he wouldn’t support her? She thought about the last time they had been together. He had lingered over dinner, then spent an overly long time in the bathroom. When he came out, she had joked about the length of his ritual ablutions, but had he really been avoiding their bed?
With an enormous force of will, she pushed David from her thoughts. She knew she had to call her children before they heard the news some other way. James had been for Kefauver, but he fully supported the turn of events. He had long thought his mother should run for president. Franklin Jr., a New York congressman, and her daughter, Anna, had been happy as well. But Elliott and John had come out for Eisenhower in a New York Herald Tribune story only days before.
“I’m sure you’ll do what you feel is right,” Eleanor had told them, knowing that her youngest son, John, was stubborn and rebellious, and Elliott was unpredictable. Eleanor moved on to her most important calls. She had ideas for the campaign team she wanted, and she needed them to come together quickly.
Molly Dewson had been Eleanor’s political ally and friend since plotting Franklin’s victory as governor of New York in 1928. Ten years older than Eleanor, Dewson was planning to retire with her lifetime partner, Mary Porter, to a property they owned in Maine. Molly had come to Chicago, seeing it as her last convention. But Eleanor knew it wouldn’t be hard to convince Dewson that she still had one more campaign in her.
Eleanor’s next call was to Esther Lape. She could think of no one better suited to be her issues adviser. She had also sent word to Joan Black to come to her suite, which was already littered with coffee cups, Coke bottles, and papers in tumbled heaps on almost every surface. When Joan arrived, Eleanor motioned for her to sit next to her on a small settee.
“Mrs. Roosevelt, let me tell you how sorry I am that you lost your friend, and the country lost a great man.”
“Thank you. I wish we all had the luxury to mourn. In due time. Have you filed your story for today?”
“No, I’m not filing. Ray Stanerd is covering the convention overall…” Joan hesitated. “I have asked to cover you. I’m waiting to get approval.”
“I see. Well, I have another proposal for you, and I don’t expect you to answer right away. I know how important being a journalist is to you. It’s in your blood, after all.” Eleanor smiled. “But I feel I need someone young to handle my communications, someone smart and eager and talented. I believe that’s you, Joan.”
“You want me to join your campaign?” Joan asked in astonishment.
“I want you to consider it, but I must warn you. One of my dearest friends is a journalist I met when I came to the White House. Perhaps you’ve heard of her—Lorena Hickok?”
Joan had not only heard of Lorena Hickok, she had met her. She had also heard the rumors of a romantic relationship between Eleanor and Hickok, one that the reporters would never write about, but which was much discussed nevertheless.
Eleanor went on. “When Hick and I became friends,” Eleanor paused and let out a sigh, “when she came too closely into the circle of White House influence, she felt her craft was compromised. She gave up journalism forever, and she was one of the great ones. You must consider that if you take my offer, that could happen to you.”
Joan hesitated. She did love newspaper work; it was in her blood. But I can go back, she thought, I’m not like Hick.
Joan also knew Eleanor wasn’t giving her the whole story. Hickok had stayed at the White House because she was so in love with Eleanor she couldn’t leave, even after Eleanor broke off the love affair.
“I’ll take my chances, Mrs. Roosevelt,” Joan said, sitting up in the chair and straightening her plaid peplum. “I would be so honored to be part of your campaign. I’m ready to start right now.”
Eleanor’s final call had been a total surprise to the man who picked up the phone. Larry O’Brien, a thirty-five-year-old political strategist from Massachusetts, was running the Senate campaign for an up-and-coming congressman named John F. Kennedy. O’Brien’s Democratic roots were deep. His father was a bulwark of the Democratic Party in western Massachusetts, who had little Larry working in Al Smith’s campaign for president when the boy was eleven years old. He had gone on to law school, but came home to run the family business, O’Brien’s Bar and Grill, where regulars came to toss back whiskey, toss around political gossip, and enjoy his mother’s cooking.
O’Brien had come to the convention with Kennedy, sitting in on some of the behind-the-scenes meetings. At one gathering, Kennedy had asked O’Brien to share his innovative campaign plan with the group. He had spent the last three congressional cycles before the convention overseeing congressional campaigns in the state of Massachusetts, and it was this experience that led him to a bold idea.
“Go ahead, Larry,” Kennedy had said with his broad New England accent. “Whoever pulls out this nomination is going to need a new approach. Tell them what you’ve been telling me.”
“Thank you, Congressman,” O’Brien said, as he looked nervously at the group of party leaders sitting around the room.
“In looking at the races in my state, and studying other races around the country, I’ve been struck by the power of one vote.” O’Brien hesitated, thinking this might sound simplistic, and then continued hurriedly, “I mean that literally. I can show you many races that would have been decided by the difference of one vote per precinct, and if that small number of votes is the margin of victory, why would a candidate fail?” Now he was warming up and went on more confidently.
“We lose close elections because we don’t get every voter to the polls. I mean phone calls, I mean transportation, I mean more calls, and the only way to get that labor-intensive work done is organization and volunteers.” O’Brien noticed India Edwards lean forward slightly with an intent look.
“We need to create state-level organizations of party leaders who we are constantly communicating with. We have to create deeper, stronger statewide organizations that can turn out volunteers. Volunteer workers are the backbone of every political organization, yet campaigns never include a plan for volunteers. Well, I’ve built a model campaign plan with that idea at its center.”
O’Brien recalled his presentation as he listened to Eleanor on the other end of the line.
“Larry, I know you’re committed to Kennedy’s campaign, but I want you to make an adjustment. I’m sure John will understand.” Her voice was stiff as she spoke the last line. She didn’t approve of the young Kennedy boys. She’d heard of their carousing with Joe McCarthy in Washington. She felt they should denounce him, and she had told their father just that.
“Larry, I’m offering you the chance to run a presidential campaign. India Edwards talked to me about your plan for campaign volunteers and involving people in elections. I couldn’t agree with you more. Ordinary citizens working on campaigns isn’t just good campaign strategy, it’s good for the democracy, good for the country. I do hope you’ll agree to be on my team. I believe we think quite the same way, and I need your help.”
O’Brien’s mind flooded with so many thoughts at once, he could hardly form a sentence. He grabbed his heavy black-framed glasses off his face and ran his forearm over his brow. He had fair skin that flushed easily, and suddenly he’d begun sweating.
He knew instantly what his father would tell him to do, what any political strategist worth their salt would do. The chance to run a presidential campaign was the ultimate prize. Still…a woman? He’d seen Eleanor’s name floated in previous elections, but he couldn’t recall any poll numbers, other than that she was the most admired woman in the world. But did that translate to votes? How much bounce could she get off her association with FDR? What about Korea? Would Americans buy a woman to end a war? Was her gender an impossible obstacle? O’Brien had to smile at himself. He was already moving into campaign thinking.
Before O’Brien could answer, Eleanor went on, “I want to be frank with you. I have a number of women who will have key positions. Combined with the novelty of a woman as the nominee, I’m afraid it might raise unnecessary criticism. I’d like a man to be head of the campaign so I can balance things out a bit. I’m sure I don’t have to point out to you, Larry, that you’ll be part of making history. Very fine history, indeed,” and he could hear the smile in her voice.
O’Brien thought about his own mother, Mary Catherine. She had sailed from Ireland in 1912 with a brogue as heavy as the freighter that brought her across the ocean. She’d scrubbed floors in the rich houses of Boston and come home at night with raw hands that he could still feel stroking his face. When his father made a little more money and told her she could stop working, she ignored him. She took a job in a shop downtown, and at night she helped her husband organize the neighborhood for the Democratic machine. Little Larry had seen her staff every precinct for an election and get every elderly, lame, and blind Democrat to the polls. She’d pressed leaflets into his hands more times than he could remember. “Take them to every house, son, and don’t be missing any. Remember, this is part of your education as much as reading about Columbus or such.”
Mary Catherine even pigeonholed parishioners after church, despite the priest’s disapproving stares. Like Eleanor, she didn’t like the Kennedys, but they were Catholics, and that made up for a myriad of sins. O’Brien suspected his father realized that Mary Catherine was the better politician, but the old man would never admit it.
“Mrs. Roosevelt, I am far more honored than I can express,” O’Brien began. “I’m sure, as you say, that the congressman will understand,” he went on, and Eleanor could tell that he wasn’t sure at all. “Of course,” O’Brien said, “I accept. I only hope your faith in me is well placed.”
When he hung up the phone, O’Brien was too stunned to pour a drink, but he knew he would need one before he called Kennedy.
Eleanor’s thoughts were pulled back to the convention floor as, after three hours of speeches mixed with anguish and hope, Rayburn’s somber voice announced: “The 1952 Democratic Convention has nominated Eleanor Roosevelt as its candidate for president of the United States.” He looked toward Eleanor, who had begun to make her way toward the stage: “Fellow Democrats, I give you our nominee for president, Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”
Eleanor had asked the band to play “America,” its strains coming slow and poignant over the subdued cheering and clapping. Walter White, executive secretary of the NAACP understood the choice. As he stood in the gallery looking down at Eleanor, he thought about that day in April 1939, when Marian Anderson, the great contralto, had been banned from singing in the Daughters of the American Revolution hall because she was black. Eleanor had helped arrange for Anderson to sing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. He had stood with the seventy-five thousand people who gathered on the National Mall that Easter Sunday to hear her. A hush had fallen over the vast audience as Anderson stepped to the microphone, raising her head high and closing her eyes. She began by singing “America,” but she subtly altered the words. “My country ’tis of thee,” she sang as the vast crowd seemed to hold its breath. “Sweet land of liberty,” and her voice rose and enunciated each word, “to thee I sing.”
As the convention hall filled with the familiar notes, he sang the words to A. Philip Randolph, who was standing next to him, “‘To thee I sing…’ Do you remember? Eleanor’s sending a message. She is surely sending a message, and our people will hear her.”
With a grave smile, and her familiar wave, Eleanor stood at the podium, once again looking out at the people who had come together for their country’s sake. This time there were no banners, no signs, no balloons.
“My friends,” she began, and the hall fell instantly silent. “This is not my moment, nor is it yours,” Eleanor went on. “Surely, it is God’s hand that has guided us in this fateful time, and we must trust His wisdom in taking our friend, Adlai Stevenson. And so, I will not give a traditional acceptance speech today, or speak of what we can do together as we run this campaign touched by fate. That will have to wait until we have said our formal good-byes to Governor Stevenson. But I have here in my purse a prayer that I carry and often read. Please let me share this with you.”
Eleanor took a paper from the handbag she had placed on the podium. She read slowly, and everyone could hear the heaviness in her heart as she began. But as Eleanor went on, standing tall and steady before them, they could hear the lifting of her spirit, and their own, as the words carried and soared through the amphitheater.
“Our Father, who has set a restlessness in our hearts, and made us all seekers after that which we can never truly find,
Draw us away from base content, and set our eyes on far-off goals.
Keep us at tasks too hard for us that we may be driven to Thee for strength.
Deliver us from fretfulness and self-pitying; make us sure of the good we cannot see and of the hidden good in the world.
Open our eyes to simple beauty all around us, and our hearts to the loveliness men hide from us because we do not try to understand them.
Save us from ourselves,
And show us a vision of a world made new.
Amen.”
Throughout the hall, the echo of Eleanor’s last word passed through the delegates like a sigh of resignation, and like the breath of acceptance. Now they must move on, it seemed to say. Now the great work of their democracy must begin.