I Never Had It Made (17 page)

However, Roy's magnificent record is no excuse for enshrining him for life at the helm of the NAACP. Through the years he has demonstrated his inability to administer democratically. A classic example of Roy's manner of operation is the history of his relationship with Frank Williams.

Frank was thirty-nine years old when I met him, and he had been, for some years, one of the young turks of the NAACP hierarchy. He had come from a very angry experience in the American segregated Army, had completed law school in Brooklyn in two years and passed the bar. When Walter White was still in command of the NAACP, White and Thurgood Marshall had hired Frank and recognized that he was a proud and driving man. Marshall gloried in his spunk and gave him important assignments. Roy feared having strong men around him lest they become a threat to his hold over the national board of directors.

Although it has not been too well publicized, there have really been two NAACP's for a number of years. One of them is the Wilkins-controlled organization, which for many years was at 20 West Fortieth Street. The other, the Legal Defense and Educational Fund, which was then at Columbus Circle, was formed when Walter White died and Roy became acting executive director. Thurgood Marshall was boss of legal activities, and everyone who knew anything at all about the internal setup of the national office knew that there was not room enough there for these two giants. Some people thought Thurgood should have been made top man after White's death. But Thurgood Marshall could never have been confined to a glorified desk job, no matter how many speaking engagements were involved.

Roy and Thurgood were both so valuable that the board permitted the establishment of the Legal Defense Fund as an autonomous entity with its own board of directors and staff setup. The two organizations coexisted and cooperated whenever necessary. That's one thing you have to say about Roy. He could always cooperate when the chips were down, even if he didn't like you. However, for a number of years, Roy regarded Frank Williams as a mixed blessing to the organization. Roy was aware that there were people around the country, members of the board, and some staff people who regarded Frank as a very good potential candidate for the top spot if Roy ever decided to retire. The laws governing the organization are written so that it doesn't matter if the majority of the paid membership around the country wants a change of command. There can be no change of command unless the national board members so elect. The majority of the national board members are under Roy Wilkins' control. I know. I have been a member of that board and I have seen at first hand how Wilkins is able to fight off any onslaught against his leadership and resist change. Some years after my fund-raising tour with Frank, a national committee was formed to push Frank as a candidate as a member of the board. Wilkins must have seen this as a threat and used his influence to defeat him. Frank Williams lost—a great loss to the NAACP. Frank, however, has gone on to do very well for himself.

XI

Campaigning for Nixon

I
do not consider my decision to back Richard Nixon over John F. Kennedy for the Presidency in 1960 one of my finer ones. It was a sincere one, however, at the time.

The Richard Nixon I met back in 1960 bore no resemblance to the Richard Nixon as President. As Vice President and as Presiding Officer of the Senate he had a fairly good track record on civil rights. When I first met him, he had just returned from a trip around the world, and he came back saying that America would lose the confidence and trust of the darker nations if she didn't clear her own backyard of racial prejudice. Mr. Nixon made these statements for the television cameras and other media for all the world to hear.

Richard Nixon is capable of deep personal goodwill and grace in one-to-one relationships and particularly if he believes you can be useful to his goals. His instincts are flawless when he bends himself to win you to his cause. He can meet you today, be introduced, learn through casual conversation that you have a three-year-old daughter with the mumps and—three months later—approach you, call you by your first name, and ask about the state of health of your little girl—the one who had the mumps. This man has the most fantastic photographic memory for newsmen, politicians, or other humans useful to the art of vote getting, and he has always had a superb briefing staff. Whatever you think of the man personally, he is a consummate political animal.

I met the Vice President and several others, including Senator Hugh Scott, in his office in the White House following the 1960 primary elections of both parties. My trip to see him had resulted from some spirited discussions I had with friends, some of whom were for Nixon and others who were for Senator John Kennedy. I had found that there was a great deal of suspicion in the black community about Nixon, primarily because so many black people were disenchanted with the Eisenhower Admin-istration. They felt that Mr. Eisenhower had a nice grin and little or no concern for rapport with blacks. I had campaigned for Senator Hubert Humphrey in the Democratic primaries because I had a strong admiration for his civil rights background as mayor of Minneapolis and as a Senator. I had heard that he was constantly being warned that his outspoken comments on civil rights would curtail his political progress. I had heard him publicly vow that he was pledged to be the living example of a man who would rather be right morally than achieve the Presidency. But since Mr. Humphrey had not been able to defeat Senator Kennedy in the primaries, I found myself faced with a choice between Nixon and Kennedy. Frankly, I didn't think it was much of a choice but I was impressed with the Nixon record on rights, and when I sat with him in his office in Washington, he certainly said all the right things.

There was one thing that bothered me during that talk, however. The telephone rang on his desk and I heard him telling, I suppose, his secretary, “No, well, I can't do that. I'm tired of pulling his chestnuts out of the fire. He'll have to work his own way out of this one.”

When he hung up, he turned and smiled at us, confiding that he had just been talking about the President. I couldn't help feeling that he was trying to impress me with the fact that he was really very different from his boss, the President. It sounded as if the Vice President wanted me to disassociate him from Eisen-hower since he knew that blacks, in the main, didn't like Ike. It had the feel of a cheap trick. After all, even if it were true that Nixon held this view of the President, it didn't seem respectful that he would let me, whom he didn't know well, in on the secret.

The same day, after leaving the White House, I went to a private home in Washington to talk with Senator Kennedy. Chester Bowles, the former governor of Connecticut and a man I highly respect, had arranged this meeting, hoping I could be persuaded to campaign for Mr. Kennedy.

I found Mr. Kennedy a courteous man, obviously striving to please, but, just as obviously, uncomfortable as he sought to get a conversation going with me. It is remarkable how seemingly minor factors can influence a decision. My very first reaction to the Senator was one of doubt because he couldn't or wouldn't look me straight in the eye. Every time he answered a question or made a statement, he would avoid looking at me and look directly at Governor Bowles, as though he were seeking strength. My mother had taught me to be wary of anyone who talked to you with head bowed or shifty eyes. My second reaction, much more substantial, was that this was a man who had served in the Senate and wanted to be President but who knew little or nothing about black problems and sensibilities. He himself admitted a lack of any depth of understanding about black people. When I said politely that I didn't see anything too encouraging in his Senate record, his manner indicated he was willing and anxious to learn, and I suppose I was being invited to be one of his teachers. Although I appreciated his truthfulness in the matter, I was appalled that he could be so ignorant of our situation and be bidding for the highest office in the land. I was certain Mr. Kennedy was well-versed in foreign affairs, farm problems, urban crises, and so on. Why was he so uneducated about the number-one domestic issue of our time? I knew also that he had a very bleak record on civil rights. It was said that during some of the most vital roll calls on this issue, he had often been missing.

My meeting with the Senator had almost ground to a standstill when my instinct told me what was coming next. How much would it take to get me on board the bandwagon?

“Look, Senator,” I said, “I don't want any of your money. I'm just interested in helping the candidate who I think will be best for the black American because I am convinced that the black struggle and its solution are fundamental to the struggle to make America what it is supposed to be.” The meeting ended on that embarrassing note.

I came away feeling I could not support John Kennedy. I did write him a note advising him to look people in the eye. I was amused subsequently when a black friend of mine, Frank Montero, who visited the Senator said that Mr. Kennedy didn't take his eyes off him for a minute.

I ended up campaigning for Nixon despite my reservations. Whatever kind of rally we had—even when they were in all-white communities, the Vice President insisted on spotlighting me as one of his supporters. I had a staff and we set up rallies that did not include Nixon. When rallies were held in black communities, we drew such large crowds that the Democrats began sending one of their most potent political stars—Congressman Adam Clayton Powell—to conduct rallies before or after our rallies.

In political appearances, I have never tried to make what is formally accepted as a speech. I find it much more effective to talk to the people and express simply exactly how I feel. Sometimes some of the statements I made were embarrassing to the candidate I was supporting. For instance, I made the point that I was not beholden to any political party, that I was black first, and that, while I believed the candidate I was backing was sincere, if I discovered he wasn't after he got in, I'd be right back to give him hell.

I began to have serious doubts about Nixon when two incidents occurred. In the first, Nixon spoke up, and in the second, he remained silent. Henry Cabot Lodge, the candidate for Vice President on the Nixon ticket, created headlines with a statement that he believed Mr. Nixon, if elected, would name a black man to his Cabinet. The press pursued Mr. Nixon for comment on Mr. Lodge's speculation, and after evading the issue as best he could, Mr. Nixon allowed an official statement to be made that Mr. Lodge was speaking for himself. This did not sit well with me. The second incident involved Mr. Nixon's refusal to speak out in behalf of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who, during the campaign, was confined in a full-security prison in Georgia as the result of a minor motor vehicle infraction. John Kennedy and his campaign-manager brother, Robert, picked up this one and ran with it. The Senator telephoned Mrs. Martin Luther King, Jr., in Atlanta to express his concern, and Bobby Kennedy applied pressure, influence, and political muscle to bring about Dr. King's release. Dr. Martin King, Sr., trumpeted from his pulpit that he was going to gather up a bag of black votes and deliver them to Senator Kennedy to demonstrate his gratitude. I was in the behind-the-scene struggle to persuade Dick Nixon to express his concern for Dr. King, but apparently his most trusted advisers were counseling him not to rock the racial boat. Add to this the fact that Mr. Nixon refused to campaign in Harlem as his opponent did, and it is easy to understand why blacks overwhelmingly voted for Kennedy.

Several times during the Nixon campaign, I was on the verge of quitting and denouncing the Vice President. Rachel did not agree with my support of Nixon. However, she did not press me to quit until he failed to assist Dr. King. Then she and friends urged me to reconsider my stance. Mail and phone calls were coming in. People couldn't understand how I could continue to go along with the program. I kept my silence—certainly not for money. I wasn't getting paid a dime except for expenses and, in fact, never recovered some of my own out-of-pocket expenses. Furthermore, I wasn't staying in because I wanted a job from Nixon if he got elected.

It's hard to explain why I stuck, disillusioned as I was. It has something to do with stubbornness about continuing to want to believe in people even when everything indicates they are no longer worthy of support. It has something to do with the reason I went into politics in the first place and why I worked for the NAACP.

My motives were both selfish and unselfish. I wanted—and still desire—a better world, a bigger break, a fairer chance for my family. I have been very fortunate personally, but my children might not be as fortunate as their father. I don't want them to have to pay the dues I've paid, to experience the tensions and trials I have undergone. Rachel tried to understand, I'm sure, but I sensed puzzlement. I clung to the hope that Nixon would follow through on the things he had indicated were important to him in that first meeting after the pressures of the campaign were over. It was not only my own family I was concerned about but all black families and especially other black children growing into maturity. I admit that the Kennedy ticket had begun to look much more attractive. But I have always felt that blacks must be represented in both parties. I was fighting a last-ditch battle to keep the Republicans from becoming completely white. Nixon lost his campaign, and four years later I lost my battle when Goldwater was nominated.

XII

The Hall of Fame Award

I
n 1962 there was a great deal of conjecture about whether I'd be elected to the baseball Hall of Fame. Hall of Fame winners are determined by the Baseball Writers of America, an extremely powerful organization, and since I was a controversial personality in the eyes of the press, I steeled myself for rejection.

To qualify for the Hall of Fame, a player must have been out of the game five years and must receive 75 percent of the ballots. He must have played ten years in the major leagues and made a significant contribution to the game. This award is to the baseball player what the Pulitzer is to a writer or other creative artist; what being named to the Supreme Court bench is to a lawyer. It is the ultimate in recognition, the highest honor in baseball. All the greats of the past have been elected to the Hall of Fame—that is, all the white greats. For, of course, before I got my chance in baseball, black players weren't even admitted into competition. That meant that election to the Hall of Fame would not be as important to me as individual recognition, as it would be terribly significant in symbolizing one of the final full acceptances of blacks in the baseball world.

I would be lying if I pretended that I wouldn't have been thrilled to become a member of the Hall of Fame. On the other hand, I did not want to win election simply because I was the first black man to be considered. Equally, I did not feel that I deserved rejection simply because I had directed what was called “my fiery temper” against violations of my personal dignity and the civil rights of my people. If I got into the Hall, I wanted to get in because I had made it by the standards. The standards are clearly defined. They include ability, integrity, sportsmanship, character, contribution to your team and to baseball in general.

Ironically enough, the one sportswriter who had constantly used me for a target in his column wrote a strong article upholding my right to be elected to the Hall. He was the same man—Dick Young of the New York
Daily News—
who had warned me back in the early days that I would lose awards. A few days before the Hall of Fame results were announced Dick Young wrote:

 

Jackie Robinson and I have a bet. We made the bet because he is a rockhead and I am a rockhead. We didn't bet anything. We did it the way kids do it; he said, “I'll betcha,” and I said “Bet” and it was a bet. I bet he would be elected to the Hall of Fame at Cooperstown as soon as he was eligible and Jackie bet he wouldn't. Five seasons have passed since Jackie Robinson deprived baseball of his flashing feet and fiery temperament. I am certain that more than 75% pulled for Jackie and for what he represented back in those trying days of 1947 and 1948 when he endured, with a tight-lipped mouth, all the physical and mental abuse that it is possible for men to inflict on other men. I am also certain (though Jackie will dispute this) that, through the years, he received a generally fine and prudent press.

Dick went on to describe the reasons why I was doubtful that I would be elected—prejudice against me and the fact that I had antagonized some of the very writers who would be casting ballots. Dick said:

 

He made enemies. He has a talent for it. He has the tact of a child because he has the moral purity of a child. When you are tactless, you make enemies. Perhaps “enemies” is a harsh word. I rather think that Robinson displeased people and offended them. He made few friends among the newsmen. There is a distinct and obvious difference between not making friends and making enemies. An enemy feels strongly and plots revenge. A non-friend feels indifference. I am confident Jackie's non-friends will sweep him into the Hall of Fame. . . . On ability alone, a strong case can be made for Jackie Robinson: for his .311 batting average through a 10-year career with the Dodgers, for his ability to beat you with his bat, with his glove, with his waddling speed. Jackie Robinson made baseball history and that's what the Hall of Fame is, baseball history.

Several days before the winners were announced, before leaving for my office at Chock Full O'Nuts, as I kissed Rachel good-bye, she told me to “be very careful what you say today.”

Rachel has almost always agreed with my basic intentions when I sounded off. I could tell she was concerned that I might unnecessarily say something which would hurt my chances of being chosen.

On the evening of Tuesday, January 23, I learned that the baseball writers had given me 124 out of 160 ballots cast. Appropriately, I was with Rachel in Stamford when the word came.

The phones began ringing. The newsmen and cameramen began arriving. Everybody wanted to hear my reaction. Truthfully, after having steeled myself to be passed over and not to let it hurt me a lot, I was almost inarticulate.

Another honor came my way immediately after the Hall of Fame announcement: A couple of days before my official induction into the Hall of Fame at Cooperstown, Dr. Martin Luther King's Southern Christian Leadership Conference sponsored a testimonial dinner in my honor at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The SCLC had created a special SCLC Hall of Fame award both to congratulate me and to express thanks for the work I had done on behalf of the organization. I really didn't need any thanks for that. I believed so fervently in Dr. Martin Luther King and his courageous aides that nothing I could do for them was too good. At the banquet telegrams were read from the President, the Vice President, and the Attorney General. Dr. Ralph Bunche, Governor Rockefeller, Floyd Patter-son (who was honorary chairman of the committee)—oh, so many fine people—spoke and brought a glow to us. Ed Sullivan and Roy Wilkins paid their tributes, and, most fabulous of all, both my mother and Mr. Branch Rickey himself lived to see this day.