Faith's Reckoning, page 22
Plessy and Delsey were never more contented than in the summer of 1938. They created a wonderful new home in that apartment. McLeod had his own room for the first time, and he relished it with the swagger of a four-year-old. It was the rare night that he would find his way into their bedroom and climb up into his mother’s arms. Between the university and the community of rising political activists, the neighborhood pulsed with activity. Sometimes on a still evening, you could hear the pure crystalline voice of Ella Fitzgerald radiating from the nearby Howard Theater or the jubilant sound of swing rising from Duke’s piano. They thrived in their new life.
Randolph quickly delivered on the Sunday dinner meeting with Mary Bethune, who lived only a few blocks up on Ninth Street. She and Delsey took to each other like long lost friends, walking arm and arm in front of Plessy and Randolph as they strolled Howard University’s campus after dinner. Mrs. Bethune invited Delsey to join the National Council of Negro Women, which she headed.
As Delsey fought alongside Plessy to overturn segregation, a new world opened to her, a world so unlike the one in which she had grown up. When McLeod entered kindergarten in the fall of 1939, she started her first courses toward her teaching degree. Though Mrs. Bethune was not her professor, she had indeed become her mentor. Plessy settled into his new job at the NLRB, patiently earning respect and eventually being trusted to draft briefs for pending lawsuits. He drew satisfaction in the incremental progress of his work, but he longed for something more revolutionary.
In late 1940, he got his chance. After three years of trying to persuade Mr. Roosevelt to desegregate the military and open defense jobs to Negroes, Philip Randolph finally had enough of waiting. In September of that year, shortly after another failed meeting with the president, he invited Plessy to join him and Milton Webster on a New Year’s Eve trip to visit the southern locals of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. In the course of their conversations that night, as the calendar flipped from 1940 to 1941, they launched the March on Washington Movement. They would organize ten thousand Black people to march to the grounds of the White House and make their demands known. They would sit there peacefully until their voices were heard.
That had been over four months ago, and the movement had mushroomed into a march of one hundred thousand people, with headquarters springing up from New York to St. Louis and even San Francisco. Plessy was in charge of organizing the southern states where he had contacts from his Brotherhood days. As he now looked up at the Washington Monument, he felt proud of what the Black community had been able to accomplish on a national level. There was a palpable excitement about the march, scheduled for July 1, less than two months away. He looked at his watch and realized he was late for work. Plessy prided himself on being the first into the office each morning. He quickened his step, rounding the corner to his left. He walked past the towering colonnade of the Main Labor Building and found his boss, Stanley Glasser, beneath the limestone archway marking the building’s entrance. Glasser was taking a last puff on his cigarette.
“Hey Plessy, nice work on the intermediate report on the Weirton Steel case. Halliday was impressed. Says the case should be decided on the merits based on your report.”
He snuffed out the ember of the cigarette butt beneath the toe of his shoe. Stanley Glasser was the chief clerk at the Board and Plessy’s immediate supervisor.
“Did Paul mention me by name?” Plessy replied, unable to mask his surprise. He knew the care with which he had researched the case, but he was not sure if Paul Halliday, the assistant general counsel assigned to it, had noticed. It was the kind of case Plessy loved to investigate, a coercion case where justice would be applied to company thugs who had been wielding clubs against union organizers. A twinge of pain shot through his left elbow, an infrequent but startling reminder of his own beating.
“Yeah. Singled you out. ‘Walker’s thorough, attends to the details,’ is what he said.”
“Good,” Plessy said, nodding, his lips slightly pursed.
“Hey Walker, at least you’re valued, if not compensated,” Glasser said with a shrug as they walked across the marble floor of the foyer. They turned down the hall to the clerks’ offices and paused at the door to Glasser’s office. “Let me know if you need any help on the New York Merchandise case,” he added and disappeared behind the mahogany and glass door with the title Chief Clerk stenciled on the frosted pane.
Plessy proceeded down the hall to the large open office at the end. The room was filled with a dozen metal desks, each occupied by a Remington typewriter resting on a leather desk pad. Most of the desks were still empty, but soon a concert of clicks would rise to animate the air as clerks tapped out the reports that awaited their attention. Plessy walked to his desk along one wall and removed his coat, draping it over the back of his chair. He retrieved the coffee mug he kept in the bottom drawer. The electric percolator was burbling away at the small table in the corner, a sign that Ellen had already prepared the pot. He smiled as the smell of coffee greeted him.
“Good morning, Ellen,” he said, when she returned from the ladies’ room. “Thanks for making the coffee.”
“You’re welcome Plessy,” she smiled. “I confess I do it selfishly. I can’t take the black swill you guys pass off as coffee.” She blushed slightly, realizing the potential offense in her words.
“Well, black is fine with me,” he smiled, “but I will admit your coffee tastes better than mine.”
He returned to his desk, set his cup down and leafed through the papers in the wooden inbox. They were mostly Labor department memos of no particular significance to him, just more bureaucratic redundancy. His mind wandered to the pending details for the March on Washington. He wanted to call Delsey and ask her how much money the National Council of Negro Women had raised this week. He still needed to talk to the Twelfth Street YMCA about places to house all the marchers when they descended on the city next month. First, though, he had to type up his notes on the New York Merchandise case and get them to Glasser by this afternoon. It would take a while to type it, one key at a time. He eased a piece of paper into the platen of the Remington with his right hand then reached for the knob to roll it into place. He heard the soft crunch as the paper wrinkled behind the roller.
“Damn it!” He whispered under his breath. He wanted to be marching at full stride with a placard in his hand, not fumbling with some cantankerous machine. He rotated the knob backward and released the paper, turned it upside down and tried again. As the paper slipped into its slot on the second try, the voice of a young man who had entered the office startled him.
“Telegram for Mr. Plessy Walker,” the messenger said.
The rest of the clerks had slowly trickled in, and the desks were mostly full now. Plessy raised his hand like an eager student and waved the young man toward him.
“That’s me, I’m Mr. Walker,” he said.
He took the envelope and placed it beneath the paperweight on his desk. He slipped a letter opener beneath the flap and neatly ripped it open.
PLESSY WALKER=
MAIN LABOR BUILDING WASHINGTON DC=
NEW DEVELOPMENTS M.O.W. COMMITTEE MEETING HARLEM YMCA JUNE 7=
PHILIP RANDOLPH.
Plessy was apprehensive. What new developments? He had worked hard to prepare for the march. The next three weeks dragged on at an insufferable pace, exacerbated by sweltering heat in the last week of May. Plessy boarded the train to New York on Sunday morning, the day of the meeting. He paused on the platform to hug Delsey one more time before he boarded.
“Stop worrying,” she said. “It makes you look like an old man.”
“But what if he’s going to call it off? What if something’s wrong?” Plessy said.
“I promise you that Brother Randolph is committed to getting fair labor practices enacted. The March on Washington is the way he is going to do it.” There was a schoolteacher’s firmness beneath her reassuring manner.
“OK, then I promise to take you dancing at the Savoy Ballroom to celebrate after the march,” he smiled as the whistle blew, announcing the last call.
Plessy and his family had visited his sister in Harlem several times in the last three years. He had succumbed to Delsey’s pleas to go dancing on their very first visit. The spirit of renaissance that filled the clubs and theaters of the neighborhood had helped him heal from the injuries he had suffered to both body and soul. He had managed to perfect a right-handed version of the Lindy Hop, having just enough strength in his left shoulder to barely raise that arm and guide Delsey back to him at the end of the swing. He committed to this labor of love because of the thrill it brought her. The smile of total abandon on her face when she was dancing was irresistible to him.
Today, though, Plessy could not shake the weight of worry. The sun blazed overhead when he arrived at the Harlem Y. He found his way down the hall to the gymnasium. The door, propped open by a metal folding chair, held a hand painted sign saying “M.O.W. Comm. Mtg.” with an arrow underneath pointing into the room. The men were sitting in a loose grouping of chairs along the opposite wall, beneath the open windows. A large fan stirred the air, providing a hint of a cool breeze. Plessy picked up a chair from the stack next to the door and went to join the other men.
Philip Randolph cleared his throat and spoke. “Well, gentlemen, we should probably get started.”
The hum of conversation fell into quiet whispers as the men pulled their chairs into a circle.
“Mrs. Mary Bethune sends her regrets that she cannot be here today, but a prior commitment required her to be in Jacksonville to attend to her presidential duties at the college there,” Randolph continued. “She asked that I convey the substance of her communications with Mrs. Roosevelt over the past month.”
“Communications about the March on Washington Movement, I assume,” one of the men said.
“Exactly,” replied Randolph. A fly buzzed against the hot windowpane behind him.
“Were these official communications, Philip? Letters?” asked another man, whom Plessy recognized to be Walter White, president of the NAACP.
“No Walter, these were private conversations. Tea amongst ladies.”
Randolph seemed to consider his words before continuing. The whir of the fan droned on above them.
“The president has made it clear that he will not tolerate a large-scale demonstration of Black men and women on the White House lawn while he is trying to prepare this country to defend Great Britain, in case of war. He suspects an invasion by Hitler is imminent.”
“But isn’t that the point of the march?” Plessy bristled. This is precisely what he had feared, that Randolph would buckle under presidential pressure. “Isn’t the point that we be allowed to fight side by side as Americans, Black and White, in the war against Fascism?”
“That’s right” and “Amen, brother” rose from voices around the circle.
“Yes, Mr. Walker, desegregation of the military has been a primary goal, but the president is not going to budge on this, I promise you. I am more concerned right now about getting access to defense jobs. It is part of what we need to talk about,” Randolph said. “I think we need to focus on a single achievable act that will crack the walls of segregation. Integrating the armed services is too big a bite for the president to chew right now.”
“I don’t care what he can chew or swallow for that matter.” The veins in Plessy’s neck were bulging as he held his breath against a bigger outburst.
“Hold on, hold on,” White broke in. “Before we begin conceding any legislative demands, let’s be clear on how serious Mr. Roosevelt is about interfering with the march. What do you mean when you say he ‘will not tolerate’ a demonstration?”
“The president can’t stop us from marching,” another man said, starting to rise from his chair.
Randolph motioned him to sit down. The sun had dropped a notch in the sky and the rays were streaming through the windows, bearing down on the men.
“Well, he could literally stop the march if he chose to bring in the National Guard, but I assume he wants to avoid that. Mrs. Bethune was not specific but said only that Mrs. Roosevelt used those words. ‘He won’t tolerate it, Mary.’ There are more subtle methods than force to pressure us not to march you know. There is the threat of jail. The word is that Mr. Hoover over at the Bureau is watching our organization very closely.”
“Looking for what?” Plessy asked. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck.
“Communist influence. And though we all know he will find no such evidence, Mr. Hoover is giving the president a weight to leverage.”
A chorus of voices rose, insisting that the march must go on.
“I agree, I agree,” Randolph said above the commotion. “But we must decide on our response to this situation. It is not going to go away. I understand that Mr. Aubrey Williams will draft a letter next week on the president’s behalf formally asking me to call off the march.”
“No!” they shouted over the screech of scraping chairs as they rose to their feet.
Mr. White’s clear, calm voice coaxed the men back to their seats. “Let him speak, brothers, let him speak. What response do you suggest, Philip?”
Randolph moved to the center of the group. The room was ripe with the smell of angry sweat.
“I think we demand a meeting with Mr. Roosevelt. We make it clear that we will not be appeased by charming words. We demand equal access to defense jobs, at equal pay!”
White considered the proposal. “I could talk to Fiorello. I know the mayor has the president’s ear. I think we can get his help.”
“And what if the president refuses?” someone bellowed.
“Promise me you will NOT call off this march!” Plessy blurted. He needed the assurance. He needed to know that he had not been working in vain for the last six months.
“I promise you that I will not abandon the enactment of a fair labor policy that prohibits discrimination by race.” Randolph replied, with a steely-eyed look that seemed to be staring down a ghost. The ghost was his past, when he had deflated the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters by calling off the strike of 1928.
Plessy remembered the words Delsey had spoken to him that morning on the train platform in Washington, DC. ‘I promise you that Brother Randolph is committed to getting fair labor practices enacted. The March on Washington is the way he is going to do it.’
“And what if the president won’t meet with us or concede to our demands?” Walter White repeated the question.
“Then we march,” Randolph said. “We march.”
Delsey leaned against the edge of the soda fountain bar atop her swivel stool and put her lips around the paper straw. She took another sip of her Coke, the burn quenching her thirst. Plessy wiped the tight ringlets from her wet forehead. Delsey always danced with enough energy for both of them and Plessy was glad for this brief break. He kissed her long and lovingly then took a drink of his Rheingold beer.
“Well, I’ll take more of that,” she said, referring to his open affection on this rare date night at the Savoy Ballroom. The culture of the Savoy fostered this public show of tenderness. McLeod was already fast asleep at his aunt’s house a few blocks away. Delsey never wasted a night like tonight. She kissed Plessy back, slowly, teasing him closer, then sliding off the stool just enough to press herself against him.
“You are intent that I celebrate tonight, aren’t you?” he smiled. “I’m doing the best I can given the circumstances.”
Philip Randolph had received the letter from Aubrey Williams on June 13, formally communicating President Roosevelt’s appeal that the March on Washington be canceled for July 1st. Randolph had already drafted a response of refusal and it had worked. The president invited him and Walter White to a meeting at the White House on June 18. The meeting included various members of the Defense Department, including the War Office of Production Management. The president’s garrulous charm had no effect on Randolph who tenaciously held to his single objective. A. Philip Randolph insisted that Mr. Roosevelt issue an executive order banning the exclusion of Negroes from jobs offered or contracted by the United States government. When the president refused, Randolph graciously acknowledged their differences and made it clear that the march would proceed as planned. Perhaps he was stronger for having led the Brotherhood for a decade and a half, or maybe he saw the expanding economy made the opportunity ripe. Whatever wisdom he had accumulated told him that he must seize this moment and not back down. In the subsequent week, New York City Mayor Fiorello La Guardia intervened to help the president see that he was beaten. On June 25, 1941, Executive Order 8802 was issued. It forbade discrimination based on race, creed, color or national origin in any government or private defense industry employment or training program. It established the Fair Employment Practices Committee to enforce the order. Randolph’s right-hand man, Milton Webster, was appointed to the FEPC.
But the desegregation of the military would have to wait for another day. Although Executive Order 8802 represented a watershed moment, Plessy could not see it. He felt betrayed when he received Randolph’s telegram calling off the march for July 1st. Randolph had convened another meeting of the March on Washington committee in Harlem for today, the Fourth of July. Plessy had been quiet on the train ride up from Washington, D.C. while McLeod danced up and down the aisle with excitement. Delsey gave Plessy breathing room, understanding the cauldron that boiled within him. She took McLeod to the dining car for breakfast, celebrating another newly won right to equal accommodations on trains, thanks to a recent Supreme Court decision. After ten years of traveling on trains, Delsey took her first bite of a warm meal served in the ornate dining car. She knew that she and Plessy would have the night together at the Savoy and she knew when and how to soothe him.
