Read A People's History of the United States Online
Authors: Howard Zinn
A People's History of the United States (68 page)
James Reston and Turner Catledge of the
New York Times,
on the government's request, did not run a story about the imminent invasion. Arthur Schlesinger said of the
New York Times
action: “This was another patriotic act, but in retrospect I have wondered whether, if the press had behaved irresponsibly, it would not have spared the country a disaster.” What seemed to bother him, and other liberals in the cold war consensus, was not that the United States was interfering in revolutionary movements in other countries, but that it was doing so unsuccessfully.
Around 1960, the fifteen-year effort since the end of World War II to break up the Communist-radical upsurge of the New Deal and wartime years seemed successful. The Communist party was in disarrayâits leaders in jail, its membership shrunken, its influence in the trade union movement very small. The trade union movement itself had become more controlled, more conservative. The military budget was taking half of the national budget, but the public was accepting this.
The radiation from the testing of nuclear weapons had dangerous possibilities for human health, but the public was not aware of that. The Atomic Energy Commission insisted that the deadly effects of atomic tests were exaggerated, and an article in 1955 in the
Reader's Digest
(the largest-circulation magazine in the United States) said: “The scare stories about this country's atomic tests are simply not justified.”
In the mid-fifties, there was a flurry of enthusiasm for air-raid shelters; the public was being told these would keep them safe from atomic blasts. A government consultant and scientist, Herman Kahn, wrote a book,
On Thermonuclear War,
in which he explained that it was possible to have a nuclear war without total destruction of the world, that people should not be so frightened of it. A political scientist named Henry Kissinger wrote a book published in 1957 in which he said: “With proper tactics, nuclear war need not be as destructive as it appears. . . .”
The country was on a permanent war economy which had big pockets of poverty, but there were enough people at work, making enough money, to keep things quiet. The distribution of wealth was still unequal. From 1944 to 1961, it had not changed much: the lowest fifth of the families received 5 percent of all the income; the highest fifth received 45 percent of all the income. In 1953, 1.6 percent of the adult population owned more than 80 percent of the corporate stock and nearly 90 percent of the corporate bonds. About 200 giant corporations out of 200,000 corporationsâone-tenth of 1 percent of all corporationsâcontrolled about 60 percent of the manufacturing wealth of the nation.
When John F. Kennedy presented his budget to the nation after his first year in office, it was clear that, liberal Democrat or not, there would be no major change in the distribution of income or wealth or tax advantages.
New York Times
columnist James Reston summed up Kennedy's budget messages as avoiding any “sudden transformation of the home front” as well as “a more ambitious frontal attack on the unemployment problem.” Reston said:
He agreed to a tax break for business investment in plant expansion and modernization. He is not spoiling for a fight with the Southern conservatives over civil rights. He has been urging the unions to keep wage demands down so that prices can be competitive in the world markets and jobs increased. And he has been trying to reassure the business community that he does not want any cold war with them on the home front.
. . . this week in his news conference he refused to carry out his promise to bar discrimination in Government-insured housing, but talked instead of postponing this until there was a “national consensus” in its favor. . . .
During these twelve months the President has moved over into the decisive middle ground of American politics. . . .
On this middle ground, all seemed secure. Nothing had to be done for blacks. Nothing had to be done to change the economic structure. An aggressive foreign policy could continue. The country seemed under control. And then, in the 1960s, came a series of explosive rebellions in every area of American life, which showed that all the system's estimates of security and success were wrong.
The black revolt of the 1950s and 1960sâNorth and Southâcame as a surprise. But perhaps it should not have. The memory of oppressed people is one thing that cannot be taken away, and for such people, with such memories, revolt is always an inch below the surface. For blacks in the United States, there was the memory of slavery, and after that of segregation, lynching, humiliation. And it was not just a memory but a living presenceâpart of the daily lives of blacks in generation after generation.
In the 1930s, Langston Hughes wrote a poem, “Lenox Avenue Mural”:
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a soreâ
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar overâ
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
In a society of complex controls, both crude and refined, secret thoughts can often be found in the arts, and so it was in black society. Perhaps the blues, however pathetic, concealed anger; and the jazz, however joyful, portended rebellion. And then the poetry, the thoughts no longer so secret. In the 1920s, Claude McKay, one of the figures of what came to be called the “Harlem Renaissance,” wrote a poem that Henry Cabot Lodge put in the
Congressional Record
as an example of dangerous currents among young blacks:
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot. . . .
Like men we'll face the murderous cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
Countee Cullen's poem “Incident” evoked memoriesâall different, all the sameâout of every black American's childhood:
Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.
Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, “Nigger.”
I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.
At the time of the Scottsboro Boys incident, Cullen wrote a bitter poem noting that white poets had used their pens to protest in other cases of injustice, but now that blacks were involved, most were silent. His last stanza was:
Surely, I said,
      Now will the poets sing.
But they have raised no cry.
      I wonder why.
Even outward subservienceâUncle Tom behavior in real situations, the comic or fawning Negro on the stage, the self-ridicule, the cautionâconcealed resentment, anger, energy. The black poet Paul Laurence Dunbar, in the era of the black minstrel, around the turn of the century, wrote “We Wear the Mask”:
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,â
. . . We sing, but oh, the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask.
Two black performers of that time played the minstrel and satirized it at the same time. When Bert Williams and George Walker billed themselves as “Two Real Coons,” they were, Nathan Huggins says, “intending to give style and comic dignity to a fiction that white men had created. . . .”
By the 1930s the mask was off for many black poets. Langston Hughes wrote “I, Too.”
I, too, sing America
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes. . . .
Gwendolyn Bennett wrote:
I want to see lithe Negro girls,
Etched dark against the sky
While sunset lingers. . . .
I want to hear the chanting
Around a heathen fire
Of a strange black race. . . .
I want to feel the surging
Of my sad people's soul
Hidden by a minstrel-smile.
There was Margaret Walker's prose-poem “For My People”:
. . . Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second generation full of courage issue forth, let a people loving freedom come to growth, let a beauty full of healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing in our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now rise and take control!
By the 1940s there was Richard Wright, a gifted novelist, a black man. His autobiography of 1937,
Black Boy,
gave endless insights: for instance, how blacks were set against one another, when he told how he was prodded to fight another black boy for the amusement of white men.
Black Boy
expressed unashamedly every humiliation and then:
The white South said that it knew “niggers,” and I was what the white South called a “nigger.” Well, the white South had never known meânever known what I thought, what I felt. The white South said that I had a “place” in life. Well, I had never felt my “place”; or, rather, my deepest instincts had always made me reject the “place” to which the white South had assigned me. It had never occurred to me that I was in any way an inferior being. And no word that I had ever heard fall from the lips of southern white men had ever made me really doubt the worth of my own humanity.
It was all there in the poetry, the prose, the music, sometimes masked, sometimes unmistakably clearâthe signs of a people unbeaten, waiting, hot, coiled.
In
Black Boy,
Wright told about the training of black children in America to keep them silent. But also:
How do Negroes feel about the way they have to live? How do they discuss it when alone among themselves? I think this question can be answered in a single sentence. A friend of mine who ran an elevator once told me:
“Lawd, man! Ef it wuzn't fer them polices 'n' them ol' lynch mobs, there wouldn't be nothin' but uproar down here!”
Richard Wright, for a time, joined the Communist party (he tells of this period of his life, and his disillusionment with the party, in
The God That Failed
). The Communist party was known to pay special attention to the problem of race equality. When the Scottsboro case unfolded in the 1930s in Alabama, it was the Communist party that had become associated with the defense of these young black men imprisoned, in the early years of the Depression, by southern injustice.
The party was accused by liberals and the NAACP of exploiting the issue for its own purposes, and there was a half-truth in it, but black people were realistic about the difficulty of having white allies who were pure in motive. The other half of the truth was that black Communists in the South had earned the admiration of blacks by their organizing work against enormous obstacles. There was Hosea Hudson, the black organizer of the unemployed in Birmingham, for instance. And in Georgia, in 1932, a nineteen-year-old black youth named Angelo Herndon, whose father died of miner's pneumonia, who had worked in mines as a boy in Kentucky, joined an Unemployment Council in Birmingham organized by the Communist party, and then joined the party. He wrote later:
All my life I'd been sweated and stepped-on and Jim-Crowed. I lay on my belly in the mines for a few dollars a week, and saw my pay stolen and slashed, and my buddies killed. I lived in the worst section of town, and rode behind the “Colored” signs on streetcars, as though there was something disgusting about me. I heard myself called “nigger” and “darky” and I had to say “Yes, sir” to every white man, whether he had my respect or not.
I had always detested it, but I had never known that anything could be done about it. And here, all of a sudden, I had found organizations in which Negroes and whites sat together, and worked together, and knew no difference of race or color. . . .
Herndon became a Communist party organizer in Atlanta. He and his fellow Communists organized block committees of Unemployment Councils in 1932 which got rent relief for needy people. They organized a demonstration to which a thousand people came, six hundred of them white, and the next day the city voted $6,000 in relief to the jobless. But soon after that Herndon was arrested, held incommunicado, and charged with violating a Georgia statute against insurrection. He recalled his trial:
The state of Georgia displayed the literature that had been taken from my room, and read passages of it to the jury. They questioned me in great detail. Did I believe that the bosses and government ought to pay insurance to unemployed workers? That Negroes should have complete equality with white people? Did I believe in the demand for the self-determination of the Black Beltâthat the Negro people should be allowed to rule the Black Belt territory, kicking out the white landlords and government officials? Did I feel that the working-class could run the mills and mines and government? That it wasn't necessary to have bosses at all?
I told them I believed all of thatâand more. . . .
Herndon was convicted and spent five years in prison until in 1937 the Supreme Court ruled unconstitutional the Georgia statute under which he was found guilty. It was men like him who represented to the Establishment a dangerous militancy among blacks, made more dangerous when linked with the Communist party.
There were others who made that same connection, magnifying the danger: Benjamin Davis, the black lawyer who defended Herndon at his trial; nationally renowned men like singer and actor Paul Robeson, and writer and scholar W. E. B. Du Bois, who did not hide their support and sympathy for the Communist party. The Negro was not as anti-Communist as the white population. He could not afford to be, his friends were so fewâso that Herndon, Davis, Robeson, Du Bois, however their political views might be maligned by the country as a whole, found admiration for their fighting spirit in the black community.
The black militant mood, flashing here and there in the thirties, was reduced to a subsurface simmering during World War II, when the nation on the one hand denounced racism, and on the other hand maintained segregation in the armed forces and kept blacks in low-paying jobs. When the war ended, a new element entered the racial balance in the United Statesâthe enormous, unprecedented upsurge of black and yellow people in Africa and Asia.
President Harry Truman had to reckon with this, especially as the cold war rivalry with the Soviet Union began, and the dark-skinned revolt of former colonies all over the world threatened to take Marxist form. Action on the race question was needed, not just to calm a black population at home emboldened by war promises, frustrated by the basic sameness of their condition. It was needed to present to the world a United States that could counter the continuous Communist thrust at the most flagrant failure of American societyâthe race question. What Du Bois had said long ago, unnoticed, now loomed large in 1945: “The problem of the 20th century is the problem of the color line.”
President Harry Truman, in late 1946, appointed a Committee on Civil Rights, which recommended that the civil rights section of the Department of Justice be expanded, that there be a permanent Commission on Civil Rights, that Congress pass laws against lynching and to stop voting discrimination, and suggested new laws to end racial discrimination in jobs.
Truman's Committee was blunt about its motivation in making these recommendations. Yes, it said, there was “moral reason”: a matter of conscience. But there was also an “economic reason”âdiscrimination was costly to the country, wasteful of its talent. And, perhaps most important, there was an international reason:
Our position in the post-war world is so vital to the future that our smallest actions have far-reaching effects. . . . We cannot escape the fact that our civil rights record has been an issue in world politics. The world's press and radio are full of it. . . . Those with competing philosophies have stressedâand are shamelessly distortingâour shortcomings. . . . They have tried to prove our democracy an empty fraud, and our nation a consistent oppressor of underprivileged people. This may seem ludicrous to Americans, but it is sufficiently important to worry our friends. The United States is not so strong, the final triumph of the democratic ideal is not so inevitable that we can ignore what the world thinks of us or our record.
The United States was out in the world now in a way it had never been. The stakes were largeâworld supremacy. And, as Truman's Committee said: “. . . our smallest actions have far-reaching effects.”
And so the United States went ahead to take small actions, hoping they would have large effects. Congress did not move to enact the legislation asked for by the Committee on Civil Rights. But Trumanâfour months before the presidential election of 1948, and challenged from the left in that election by Progressive party candidate Henry Wallaceâissued an executive order asking that the armed forces, segregated in World War II, institute policies of racial equality “as rapidly as possible.” The order may have been prompted not only by the election but by the need to maintain black morale in the armed forces, as the possibility of war grew. It took over a decade to complete the desegregation in the military.
Truman could have issued executive orders in other areas, but did not. The Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments, plus the set of laws passed in the late 1860s and early 1870s, gave the President enough authority to wipe out racial discrimination. The Constitution demanded that the President execute the laws, but no President had used that power. Neither did Truman. For instance, he asked Congress for legislation “prohibiting discrimination in interstate transportation facilities”; but specific legislation in 1887 already barred discrimination in interstate transportation and had never been enforced by executive action.
