I Never Had It Made: An Autobiography of Jackie Robinson Page 21

  The Democrats have traditionally been the party that blacks have given their allegiance to. Despite my reservations about John Kennedy, his brief administration turned into a period of hope. However, although I respected Kennedy for his articulate concern when he was forced to face issues, I felt that it was Robert Kennedy who was the driving force behind the advances made on civil rights issues. It seemed to me that Robert Kennedy had more integrity on racial issues and that he wanted to be more bold and forthright.

  But at least there was progress during these years. The Kennedys pushed implementation of the rights of blacks established in the earlier Supreme Court decisions on bussing and schools. Eisenhower had said that it was his duty to recognize the Supreme Court ruling on school segregation but that he saw no necessity to go to any lengths to speak out for it or to move to enforce it. When he finally sent the troops to Little Rock, I believe he acted because his West Point mentality was angered by Faubus’ defiance of orders rather than out of any deep moral conviction. But when John and Robert Kennedy took on Governor Wallace, I think they were acting on the belief that black rights had become top-priority national business.

  The assassination of the President was a great shock. I did not idolize Kennedy as many did, but his death was a great loss. Later when Robert Kennedy was killed, I felt the same. The two men did much for the cause of black rights. Furthermore, when John Kennedy was assassinated, I was deeply concerned because of grave doubts about the future of blacks under Lyndon Johnson. His ties to the South and his closeness to men like Senator Russell made many of us fear that the gains made under Kennedy would be lost. Then, when Johnson began implementing pro–civil rights legislation, I suspected that this was political sleight-of-hand to disguise a subtle Southern strategy. However, when the 1964 campaign came, I worked to have Johnson reelected because of the dangers of the Goldwater politics, as I said before. But my uneasiness about Johnson continued.

  The events in Selma, Alabama, found me at the height of my dissatisfaction. The atrocities against civil rights activists, the brutalization of peaceful marchers, the deaths of blacks over the years such as Evers, Till, Chaney, deeply angered me. I had spent a weekend in Mississippi making speeches in which I blasted the Johnson administration for its seemingly don’t-give-a-damn attitude toward these terrible events. I had pointed out at mass rallies in the North and South that it takes more than a big job, big talk, and big gestures to wipe out the bad taste of a thirty-year-old record of adamant opposition to civil rights. I mentioned that the same statesman who calls for Congressional allegiance to civil rights from the White House is the same politician who only last year voted to make it necessary for two-thirds of the Senate to curb the filibuster.

  Finally there was the murder of the white minister, the Reverend James Reeb. I actually felt a swift rush of anger when I learned that the President had sent flowers to the hospital room of the dying Reverend Reeb and that when he received word of the young minister’s death, he had sent a jet plane to be at the disposal of Mrs. Reeb. It was no time for flowers and public relations moves, I felt. It was time to send into Alabama the same kind of force we had dispatched to Vietnam.

  However, my attitude toward Johnson underwent a drastic change when I heard his address to Congress following Reeb’s death. I felt that he offered to the world the essence of the finest leadership which could come from the highest seat of power in the world. He was soft-spoken in his description of his personal goals for freedom. He was eloquent as he outlined personal views about the rights of all Americans. He was courageous and forthright as he dared to repeat the official chant of the movement: “We shall overcome.” He was almost savagely strong when he let the Congress know that he was staking his leadership in the free world upon their response. I felt high praise for Mr. Johnson.

  I wasn’t always happy with President Johnson in the White House, of course, but I have to admit that he did a courageous job of translating into hard legislation some of the key issues of the civil rights movement. Many blacks remained suspicious of LBJ because he was a Texan and his early voting record was antiblack. But there’s something really unusual about a Southerner who was once a dyed-in-the-wool states’ righter and who, for whatever reason, changes his mind. Somehow it seems that those from below the Mason-Dixon Line who come over to the liberal cause bring with them a firmness and sincerity that Northern liberals don’t have. Harry Truman displayed some of this and President Johnson even more. Some cynics go around saying, “Oh, well, you know, they just did it to get the black vote” or “Every move he makes is political.” They seldom allow for the possibility that a man like Johnson, for years a big-time clubhouse politician with his loyalties tied to a regional constituency, could grow into the consciousness that national responsibility has been suddenly thrust upon him. This meant that he must widen his views to attempt to be President of all the people and to do those things, no matter how foreign to his past instinct, which would serve the best interests of the whole country. I believe Lyndon Johnson made the leap to this kind of awareness. I believe that, with his tremendous sense of history, he truly wanted to leave a record of radical achievement as President.

  LBJ’s Southern background had something to do with the force he exerted when he became a civil rights President. This personal theory is grounded on my own experience in baseball. Some Southern-bred ballplayers who were initially appalled at the idea of having a black teammate turned out to be allies when they realized the economic gains for baseball. When you strip away all the demagogic talk on both sides and get right down to the real nitty-gritty, the black and white Southerners have the basis for a much more genuine understanding of each other and realization of their absolute need for each other on a partnership level than Northern blacks and whites. There was a popular saying once that in the North the white man didn’t care how close the black man came if he didn’t climb too high, and in the South the white man didn’t care how high the black man climbed if he didn’t come too close. This attitude has been changing in recent years. One big factor, added to the Southern white man’s awakening to the fact that blacks could use their combined purchasing power as a weapon, is the new respect in Dixie for black voting strength.

  There is no doubt that President Johnson played a magnificent role in the political liberation of blacks. He was able to do this because black people started demonstrating that they were determined to vote. He was also peculiarly qualified to bring about change because, unlike his predecessor, he had a magic touch with the Senators and representatives with whom he had related so skillfully for so many years. They accepted him as one of them because he had become a giant among them, in terms of power and the ability to cajole, persuade, threaten, and negotiate.

  But Johnson’s contribution could only be backed up by the people. I remember after the President’s speech after the death of Reeb how strongly I realized that the final test rested with Congress. I felt it to be the duty of every person in our society to remain alert and vigilant to any threat to freedom. The freedom to vote could only be unleashed by the members of Congress. They were politicians. Politicians react to pressure. I know that we who were shocked over incidents like the brutal clubbing of Reverend Reeb on a dark street had to establish a counterpressure. I was certain that the President and the Congress had received many angry letters from people who were in favor of keeping blacks in their “place,” who were resigned to the status quo. I have never been in favor of aggressive violence, but neither am I a turn-the-other-cheeker, so I called for letters and public statements. They came by the thousands.

  But letters and statements were not enough. I began to sense the need for greater involvement. My opportunity came in 1966 when Governor Rockefeller asked me to become a member of his Executive Chamber as Special Assistant to the Governor for Community Affairs. Even though I had vowed many times that I would not accept a full-time political job, and although I would be making a financial sacrifice, I felt the position would hold an impo
rtant challenge. The governor an-nounced my appointment at a press conference in Albany in February, 1966.

  I told the press that day that one of the reasons I wanted to join the governor’s staff was that I deeply respected his personal and public record, his family background, and his determination to work for human dignity.

  I found the day-to-day business of representing the governor in his Fifty-fifth Street, New York City, offices quite different from campaigning for him.

  A campaign worker has to interpret the candidate to the people, sometimes justifying his views on minor issues even though he might not always thoroughly agree. But because, on an overall basis, he believes in the man and what he stands for, he goes along. In working for the governor, as a special assistant, there is more choice. It is not a question of stooging for him and endorsing his every word and deed or doing one’s best to give him honest reports.

  A man like Rockefeller is surrounded by people trying to please and soothe him and I think he appreciated my outspokenness. On several occasions, not always happily, the governor conceded that I was one of the few people close to him who usually spoke up when I thought I had to. No one should be brainwashed into believing Uncle-Tomming is a black habit. In the service, in my business associations, and in politics, I have seen some of the most creative kissing of behinds done by white people that one can imagine.

  I was given the kind of easy access to the governor that very few people in the state government enjoyed. I had a direct line to the governor to wherever he was in the state. I didn’t ask for this kind of communication and I didn’t abuse it. I learned that only half a dozen people in the state had the same privilege.

  Once when we were campaigning in Queens in a predominantly black community the governor, full of good humor, carelessly referred to a couple of local candidates as “boys.” Instantly I knew this was a grave error. I know how black men feel about being called boy. I myself always react with instant resentment no matter how decent the person using this offensive word seems to be. The crowd, with angry protests, made it quite clear to Rockefeller that they were insulted.

  The governor was genuinely shocked. Normally, he has perfect instincts in not making ethnic mistakes. I knew him well enough to know he hadn’t meant the word in the way it was received. He was very upset to have given offense and said so. He explained forthrightly, without stuttering or faltering, that he and his brothers were used to referring to each other as the boys. He admitted that he should have been more sensitive than to use the word and he deeply regretted it. It was a straightforward and handsome apology, and the crowd seemed to accept it as sincere.

  The next morning I sent him a brief interoffice note which said that I thought he had handled a tense situation rather well.

  “But, Governor,” I wrote in the last line, “don’t let it happen again.”

  On another occasion, during the days of wheeling and dealing and all kinds of speculation about the upcoming 1968 Republican National Convention, the political columns and grapevines were filled with rumors. One of them was that California Governor Ronald Reagan might join Governor Rockefeller to stop Dick Nixon. I knew that a Rockefeller-Reagan ticket would be something I could never be associated with. However, I didn’t even give credence to the possibility until I learned that the governor of California had met with the governor very, very quietly at the Rockefeller Fifth Avenue apartment. I made it my business to confront Governor Rockefeller directly.

  “You know,” I told him, “I hope this talk about you and Reagan is just talk. I personally couldn’t go along with such a hookup, and, furthermore, if I could, I’d never be able to justify or explain it.” The governor laughed heartily, then told me why he was amused.

  “You should have heard the hard time I had explaining you to Reagan,” he said.

  I laughed, too, but pointed out that I couldn’t care less what Reagan thought of me.

  I constantly told the governor that I didn’t think he’d ever make a good Conservative. I believed that challenging actions—such as going to the mat with Nixon for a civil rights platform in 1960 and fighting back before a hostile Goldwater convention in 1964—were the kinds of untraditional conduct that he loved most and that suited him best. I felt that he had little to lose and a world to gain by continuing to refuse to conform to the mold of political accommodations and compromise.

  The governor always listened to me thoughtfully and talked with me frankly. The acid test of his confidence in me came during the 1966 campaign for his reelection as governor. I heard a rumor that the governor was going to accept William Miller as campaign manager. The Conservatives had been warning Rockefeller that he must do some things to change his liberal image, that if he didn’t, the growing Conservative numbers could weaken the GOP sufficiently to ensure a Democratic victory. I couldn’t conceive of Nelson Rockefeller for one minute considering taking this man on his campaign staff, and I knew that if he did, I would have to quit. I knew that my quitting would give a dangerous weapon to the opposition, so I tried to put through a call to the governor to ask him if Bill Miller was going to be accepted by him. If he said yes, I would tell him I would be forced to resign. Normally, I had no problem getting through immediately even in spite of the governor’s always hectic schedule. For whatever reason, my request for an appointment was not honored within the next day or two. I had, in accordance with protocol, routed it through top people in the campaign. Perhaps somebody there didn’t want me to see the governor. Or maybe the governor himself was ducking me.

  The Miller situation had become such a real possibility that a couple of newsmen, knowing how I had fought Goldwater, began asking me how I would feel about working with Miller. I knew that I would be forced to answer their questions very soon. One day, when I was scheduled to do an important radio interview show, I realized I had to do something drastic because I was certain the question about Miller would come up on the air. I telephoned Hugh Morrow, the governor’s communications director, and left a message that I had to have assurance before going on the air that the Miller rumor was not true. If I didn’t, I would have to state my frank opinion about any intended use of Miller in a key position in the campaign. I waited until the last minute for a return call. When it didn’t come, I went on the air for my interview. The Miller question was raised, and I answered that the campaign staff would be too small for both Bill Miller and Jackie Robinson. The newspapermen had a Donnybrook. On front pages and all over radio and television, the news was blasted that I had threatened to quit. My phone began ringing furiously. Most of the calls and comments were encouraging, praising me for my stand and telling me, “I don’t blame you.”

  There was no call or comment, however, that evening or all the next day from the governor. I had no way of telling what the governor’s decision would be. The Conservative and right-wing influences were furiously at work and I knew it. Word came down that there would be a press conference one morning, and I was requested to meet the governor in his private office a few minutes before it took place. I happened to get to Fifty-fifth Street just as the governor arrived, tired and unsmiling. Well, I told myself as he greeted me with a casual air, I guess I’m on my way out of the political business. A few minutes later, the governor and I sat down in his private office for a brief chat and then we went downstairs together to face one of the most crowded press conferences ever held at the Fifty-fifth Street office.

  That press conference turned out to be an unforgettable one. When I think about it, I still get a little emotional. Rockefeller supported me all the way and announced that he wanted me to stay on. Miller’s offer was turned down. The conservatives were very upset, but Rockefeller had made his stand and I was proud and moved by his support.

  One of the prominent Conservative big shots who was really disturbed by this incident was William Buckley. William Buckley, one of my favorite feuding partners, has never forgiven me for being against Goldwater. He sneered in his syndicated column that the governor, who origi
nally had become governor on the issue of bossism in the Democratic party, is himself a boss, who gives orders virtually to everyone in the party and in the state government except Jackie Robinson. Criticism of this nature was high praise to me because, most of the time, if I can irritate Bill Buckley, I figure I’m doing something constructive.

  Two years later, in 1968, Bill Buckley and the whole Conservative crowd had their turn to taste triumph when Richard Nixon made his remarkable political comeback at the Republican National Convention. Even though the odds seemed overwhelmingly against us, there were still some of us in New York State and around the country who believed the perpetuation of the two-party system depended on the party’s nominating someone who could rebuild it from the shambles it had become during the Goldwater debacle. Our man was, of course, Governor Rockefeller. Rockefeller had been off again, on again, doing what some disgusted friends and foes called a hesitation walk about his intention to seek or not to seek the 1968 nomination. There were periods when he was convinced that he ought to make a fight for the nomination and other times when he seemed resigned to the fact that his party had completely turned its back on him. Unfortunately he finally decided not to run. This put me in a difficult position.

  The Agnew nomination and the choice of Richard Nixon by the Republican party convinced me of something I had long suspected. The GOP didn’t give a damn about my vote or the votes—or welfare—of my people. Consequently, I could no longer justify supporting them. I got word to the governor that I was resigning as his special assistant. I knew that political protocol would dictate that he go along with the party nominations. When I told Governor Rockefeller that I was resigning, I also told him that I would be campaigning for Hubert Humphrey and didn’t want to place him in the embarrassing predicament of campaigning on one side of a street someday for Nixon-Agnew and having a member of his staff—me—campaigning on the other side of the street for the Democrats.