“STEEL WILL DIE IN BIRMINGHAM,” PHILIP FIELDING SAID to the inner circle. “It’s dying now.”
Twelve businessmen, in immaculate and stylish dark suits, silk ties hanging from their necks, stared at him, then nodded. Permission given to continue—and permission had to be given in this group for it to exist—Philip Fielding went on.
“We are the future in Birmingham—commerce and education. Particularly medical education.”
Could he have continued if one face had darkened with disagreement? He must persuade them to change, but he could not dissent. No maverick—certainly not himself—could break away howling for integration. No, they had to move as a collective body, and yet the circle must be widened.
“Why do I say steel is dying? Why is that important to us?” All of them talked with the steel men, knew their attorneys as friends and neighbors, but the Inner Circle was a mixture of Christians and Jews who owned other businesses. “Foreign steel, cheap labor, no unions abroad. The unions are too strong now here in Birmingham. We all know that. But the economy of this city will rest more and more on us. To flourish—we must have one thing. What is it?” He saw anxiety rise on their faces like the mercury in so many thermometers in a heat wave. Quickly, he said, “Solidarity.”
Everyone relaxed. The word was mumbled with approval. Now was the time to make the herd take a step. He spoke not from his heart—which was thoroughly conservative and loved most the South of his own childhood—but from shrewd necessity.
“With solidarity amongst us, we can afford to talk to them. I’ve already talked with A. G. Gaston. He’s a reasonable colored man. A businessman. He’s not pushy. He’s as polite as any one of us. Most important he’s a very successful businessman. He’s respected in his community and we can offer him respect. I respect him. Bull Connor is an embarrassment to us.
“The idea, gentlemen, is to open negotiations. Then we can take time to plan our course. Then this rioting and demonstrating in the streets will end.
“A colored boy on his bicycle was badly beaten, nearly killed. He was nowhere near a demonstration. We don’t want that, gentlemen. We’re not for violence. Violence is the worst thing in the world for business. They call themselves nonviolent—and some of them are—devoutly so—but we have loved the peace and harmony of the races all our lives. We are the ones who really treasure and who really can create a nonviolent atmosphere.
“Couldn’t you sit here just the same, if Mr. Gaston were sitting on my left, and maybe Mr. What’s-his-name, who made a fortune in black beauty products, with him sitting between, say, Jerry and Mike? You could do that, couldn’t you, Jerry?”
Jerry chuckled nervously. “I don’t quite know what we’d talk about,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Fielding exclaimed. “It’s the tone we’re working with. We’re accessible, in the right atmosphere. We’ll work up to issues.”
Mike said, “Everybody could talk about his church.”
“Yes,” Fielding said, “or temple. How is the atmosphere amongst people we’re working with? We could talk about that. What do people fear and hope? Both sides. We can share that.”
“Should we include pastors themselves?”
And so inch by inch, the unbroken circle moved away from the old intransigence toward being slightly more willing to negotiate with the other half of the citizens of Birmingham.
WHEN FIELDING GOT HOME, he collapsed into his La-Z-Boy and asked his wife to please bring him some orange juice.
“Are you all right?” she asked. Her little birdlike face was screwed up. At one temple Gertrude still had crossed bobby pins. She’d been too anxious to take down all her pin curls.
“Come sit with me,” he said and drew her onto his lap. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I didn’t want it. But Birmingham will change.”
“Who was Mahatma Gandhi, Philip?”
“You remember him from the newsreels. Back in the 1940s. A tiny little brown man in a loincloth. He made the British give up India.”