Judgment of a colored man in the White House cannot and should not be made on whether he will or will not be a wise President, better than Harding, worse than Kennedy or Lyndon Johnson or T. C., but whether or not his judges, all the products of independent America, have attained sufficient maturity, have grown high enough, have become citizens enough, to permit a fellow human being, experienced and expert in his calling, to reflect and serve them.
The immediate future is not in the hands of our first Negro President. It is in our hands, for better or for worse.
It seemed an eternity that Douglass Dilman sat at the dining-room table, holding the great metropolitan newspaper which had spelled out, frankly and sensibly, what conditions and judgment waited for him beyond the insular fort of his Negro dwelling and Negro neighborhood.
Presently he dropped the newspaper to the table beside the cold breakfast he had hardly touched. He knew that what he had read should have made him feel heartened, even hopeful. Yet the apprehension and fears of the morning shadowed any possible optimism. He thought: Yes, there are men of reason and good will out there; they exist. But then, he also knew, from years of traumatic observation, years of compromising and cowering to survive and get along, that men such as the one or ones who created that reasonable editorial were too few.
Dilman was not a highly imaginative man, not a soarer, a dreamer, a passionate mover or shaker; this he knew and had always known. He was an intelligent man. He was a formally educated man. He was an experienced man in his chosen field, politics, where knowledge of superficial catch phrases, some forensic talent, an ability to smile, a gift for concession, and a knowledge of facts were enough.
The hard factual core of his mind reframed the eloquent content of the editorial. If all men in America read it and were moved by it, he could enter the White House without fear. But what was this New York metropolitan newspaper anyway, in truth? It was a morning paper, the most appreciated by intellectuals in the land. Its total daily circulation was 800,000. How many of these 800,000 would even read the small type of the editorial page? And how many in the broad nation of 230 million would even know of its existence? It was a pebble trying to fell a Goliath of prejudice-a pebble, not a boulder.
The telephone to his left rang out, startling him from his brooding. Too quickly, out of guilt for the self-indulgence of self-concern, he shot his hand to the receiver, pulled it toward him, fumbling, almost dropping it into the eggs.
“Hello?”
It was a long-distance operator from Trafford, New York. He waited.
“Hello-hello-” He recognized the nervous, high-pitched voice at once as that belonging to Julian, his son. “Dad?”
“Yes, Julian. How are you?”
“Me? Forget about me. My God, Dad, they woke me up in the middle of the night with the news. I couldn’t believe it. I’d have called you right away, but I was afraid to wake you up. I tried all morning-”
“Yes, they told me.”
“I guess congratulations are in order. May I be one of the first to congratulate you?”
“You certainly may. Thank you, son.”
Julian went on excitedly. “Everyone’s thrilled about it, Dad. It’s the talk of the school. Kids are even cutting classes, whole groups roaming the quad, singing, celebrating.”
As he went on to describe the activities at Trafford University, Dilman realized that this was the first time in a year that his son had spoken with enthusiasm of the school. Julian had not wanted to go to the Negro university. He had been forced to enroll by his father, and he had never ceased resisting it or complaining about his classmates. Now elation had replaced complaint.
“I don’t know that they have so much to feel festive about,” Dilman interrupted. “We lost a fine President.”
“Sure we did, Dad, but, my God, can’t you see? In one stroke we have more than we ever dreamed of. We’ve got you there. No more lousy uphill fighting. Now you can do it all with a twist of the wrist. They’ve got to give in to you. You’re the President!” He was almost shouting with manic glee. “The shortcut’s been made. We’ll get our rights without-”
“Julian,” he said sternly. He had to put a stop to this Julian in Wonderland. “Don’t go around quoting me, or repeating a word I say. This is strictly family, you understand.”
“Sure, sure-”
“Nothing has changed that much, at least not for the better. The road ahead is just as long and steep as a day ago.”
“Naw, never, Dad. For once, stop being so conservative. You’re too close to the picture. You can’t see how big it is. I tell you-”
“You’ve told me enough,” said Dilman curtly. “We’ll discuss this another time. I’ve got a lot to attend to today. And I’m sure you have, too.”
“Yes, but not today, Dad. My God, they’re treating me here like I was the President.”
Instantly the letter from Chancellor Chauncey McKaye, of Trafford University, came to Dilman’s mind.
“Has Chancellor McKaye come down to congratulate you?” Dilman asked with slight sarcasm.
“No, not yet, but-”
“I don’t think he will. I think he celebrates honor students. Look, son, we’d better have a talk-”
“I want to. When are you moving into the White House? I want to come down with the gang and see the inside and-”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll know more about everything in the next few days. I want you here as soon as it is feasible, but without your friends this first time. I have something to discuss with you.”
“Okay, sure.” Julian sounded deflated. “When can I come to Washington? I’m free next Tuesday.”
“Tuesday, then. You come to the West Wing of the White House. I’ll leave word to let you in. Now, behave yourself and attend your classes.”
“Stop worrying, Dad.” He hesitated, and then lowered his voice. “I was thinking about-I wonder how she feels this morning.”
“Never mind about that,” Dilman said sharply. “See you Tuesday, and thanks for your call. I appreciate it.”
After he hung up, Dilman thought about his son’s oblique reference to Mindy, the unmentionable by name, the untouchable, the expatriate from her family and race, and he wondered about her, too. Would he hear from his daughter now? He knew the barter involved. Would it be worth it to her to abdicate her whiteness for the throne of a Negro President’s daughter? He guessed the answer, even as he asked himself the question, and he was grateful when the telephone sounded loudly once more.
This time the caller was his Senate secretary, Diane Fuller, and because he could hardly hear her and because she was almost inarticulate, he knew that she was among whites. He accepted her congratulations and then learned that she was in Edna Foster’s office in the White House. Diane explained that T. C.’s personal secretary had summoned her to pick up Dilman’s heavy inflow of top-level cables and telegrams, and bring the most important to his apartment, in case he wanted to see the communications early.
As Diane began to recite the names affixed to the cables of felicitations and good wishes-one from the Premier of the U.S.S.R., one from His Holiness the Pope, one from the British Prime Minister, one from the President of France, one from the Secretary General of the United Nations, one from President Amboko of Baraza-Douglass Dilman interrupted her.
“Diane, you leave all that right on Miss Foster’s desk,” he said. “Tell her I’ll be in shortly. As for you, go back to my Senate office and take calls. I’ll be in touch with you later.”
When he had finished with the telephone, a troubling thought plucked at his sensitivity. The President’s personal secretary, the late President’s secretary, had telephoned the Senate Building to get Dilman’s own colored secretary to pick up the messages for him. Why this roundabout, time-wasting maneuver? Why had not Edna Foster simply telephoned him herself or brought the messages to him? That would have been the normal way, and the most efficient. Was it that she had never been to a Negro neighborhood before? Or was he overreacting? Was it simply that she had been T. C.’s secretary, and was not only grief-stricken but uncertain about her future role?