April 4, 1968, America lost Dr. Martin Luther King to a sniper’s bullet. That evening, ignoring police warnings of violence, Robert Kennedy spoke to the black community of Indianapolis in the most heartfelt speech I have heard He spoke in words of anguish, yet he offered hope for America, thus echoing Dr. King’s call to “hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.” While rage at Dr. King’s murder exploded into riots in scores of American cities, Indianapolis was spared violence. Perhaps because people there believed a leader actually cared? Robert Kennedy’s voice, though silenced 2 months later by an assassin, speaks to us today.
For International Women’s Day, a story of a pioneer, Frances Perkins, first female U.S. Cabinet secretary, architect of the New Deal, and the day that changed her life.
One spring day in 1911, Frances Perkins witnessed one of the most heart wrenching scenes in American history. The epiphany she then experienced led her to a path less traveled, as she became the first female Secretary of Labor and the leading architect of the 1930s New Deal.
She was lunching that afternoon with friends at a small café in the Greenwich Village district of New York City. Nearby, the Triangle Shirtwaist factory occupied the upper floors of a grimy, rundown building. In crowded quarters, young immigrant women sewed clothes in nine hour shifts, six days a week, for paltry wages.
While Perkins was sipping tea and conversing, a hidden fire smoldered in the lint and scraps of cloth in the factory. When it flared up, the women ran to escape. The fortunate discovered a way out, but many workers found exit doors impossible to open. Banging and pounding on the doors proved futile, and their desperate pleas went unanswered. One hundred feet above street level, they were trapped with the flames. The Triangle owners had locked doors from the outside, so they could control the workers leaving the plant.
Smoke poured from the upper floors, and Perkins went into the street to see what was happening. Women climbed out of the windows and stood precariously on the ledges, hoping for a miracle. The fire trucks arrived, but their ladders did not reach high enough. The firemen watched helplessly as women began to jump to their deaths, driven by the searing flames. One hundred forty-six workers perished. The youngest among them were fourteen year-old Kate Leone and Rosaria Maltese.
In a civil suit resulting from the fire, the plaintiffs were awarded $75 per deceased victim. Two years later, one of the owners was found guilty of again locking factory doors during working hours, and he was fined $20.
The Path Less Traveled
Perkins, then 31, was a social worker by profession, but after watching the horror of the Triangle fire, she chose a new direction. She threw herself into political reform to advocate for the working class. When women won the right to vote in 1920, more doors opened for skilled and dedicated women to rise in the progressive movement.
Perkins joined the administration of Governor Franklin Roosevelt in New York. When FDR became president in 1932, with the country prostrate and demoralized in the Great Depression, Frances Perkins became the Secretary of Labor. She was the first woman to serve in the Cabinet. She found herself right at home in the rough and tumble of national politics. Perkins was tough, but she was also persuasive. She knew how to work with people on their terms—an invaluable skill, particularly for a woman in the 1930s.
Perkins became the New Deal’s chief policymaker, overseeing reforms that would allow blue collar workers greater participation in American life. The American middle class flourished in this fertile soil. In the process, Roosevelt’s Democratic Party grew to be a broad coalition, with the working class as an integral partner. This realignment of American politics endured for two generations.
In 1968, a young man wrote a book entitled Revolution for the Hell of It. Abbie Hoffman was a leader of the late 1960s counter culture and the icon of a new social type, the celebrity protester. He was famous for being famous, and the television cameras, like faithful puppies, followed him from protest to protest. His remarks, however inane, regularly made the evening news. As his book’s title implies, Hoffman mocked the diligent efforts of reformers in the mold of Frances Perkins. He was, indeed, openly derisive of the American working class and its culture and values.
It has been remarked that as the Vietnam War became more unpopular with the American public, the anti-war protestors became even more despised. While this might seem a paradox, the attitude and behavior of the Abbie Hoffmans of that era dispels any apparent contradiction. Although the vast majority of anti-war protestors demonstrated peacefully, the fringe who instigated violence were always sure to attract the media’s attention, and the American public reacted. The provocateurs’ contempt for working class Americans goes a long way to explain the election of conservative Republican Richard Nixon as president in 1968 and his landslide re-election four years later.
Yet, a strange thing happened after the Democratic Party’s presidential election debacle in 1972. As the years went by, through the 1970s and the 1980s, the attitudes held by the 1960s extremists migrated from the fringes to become more prevalent in the Democratic Party. Perversely, repeated defeats led to a doubling down on failure. Instead of a searching self-examination, Democrats of the leftist persuasion blamed the voters, especially those in the working class who were white. This arrogance was no longer confined to the activists, but came to permeate the party leadership.
Frances Perkins would have been appalled, both on a personal and political level. The Democratic Party had not only turned its back on her constituency, but it had also eschewed her politics of persuasion.
Sheltered in the warmth of a Detroit library’s archives on a blustery fall evening, I happened upon a clue to Abraham Lincoln’s political artistry. Having often visited Washington, I have met the marble Lincoln seated at the Memorial, his presence like an ancient oracle looking out toward the reflecting pool, his famous words etched on the walls, and a steady stream of tourists looking up to a revered, if distant, figure. The setting last Thursday allowed me a more personal insight.
Reblogging this in honor of Abraham Lincoln’s birthday
The archivist led our small group into an alcove where the library kept fragile materials. A letter on yellowed paper, too frail to be touched, rested on a display table. Written in a forceful, cursive hand, the note was dated October 11 in the first year of the Civil War. The writer sought the aid of the Secretary of War. The signature at the bottom read, Abraham Lincoln.
At first glance, the letter’s content seemed mundane. Lincoln was asking the Secretary of War to assign two junior army officers to a general named Sherman. Never having seen one of Lincoln’s letters up close, I mused over this bit of history. For me, there was a sense of the past looking over my shoulder.
Walking out of the alcove, I found myself imagining the story that might lie behind the letter. I pictured Lincoln in the White House with his young son, Tad, playing nearby. A Congressman from a Midwest prairie district, fortified for the occasion by a prior visit to nearby Willard’s bar, asks the president for a favor for two constituents. Perhaps one had been a small town lawyer and the other a local politician; now they were officers in the Union Army. Did I mention that Lincoln is a Republican and the Congressman a Democrat? Lincoln listens intently, turning over the Congressman’s request in his mind. Rather than committing himself, Lincoln tells a droll story, and the two men share a hearty laugh. Today, this scene would be impossible,, but in 1861, politics worked in just this fashion.
Abraham Lincoln mastered the political arts as a lifelong endeavor, beginning with many years spent brokering deals in the fractious Illinois legislature. His shrewdness and deft touch have never been equaled in American history. Lincoln’s strengths met the ultimate test in the Civil War, where military triumphs required a sturdy foundation of political success. In the North, popular support for the war remained problematic, from the opening shots at Fort Sumter to the last bugles at Appomattox Court House. Lincoln faced a precarious high wire balancing act during his presidency.
Rancorous partisan strife marked politics in Lincoln’s time. Yet, if Democrats deserted the war effort, the Union cause would be lost. One key to their support was the appointment of prominent Democrats, sometimes woefully unqualified as officers, to positions in the Army. Lincoln knew that such concessions to political reality were unavoidable, though no one felt the resulting loss of life more deeply than he did. Fortunately, he eventually found the commanders he needed to win the war.
Lincoln’s simple words in a faded letter remain with me as I write this. Certainly, his speeches deserve to be enshrined in our country’s memory, yet it should not be forgotten that he was first and always a politician of great sensitivity and finely honed persuasive ability. He could reach out to an opponent, arrange a deal, and reach a compromise—all the while keeping his eyes on the prize. Such is the legacy that Lincoln left us, if we would only learn from his bequest.
The green Armstrong plaid had once been a fearsome sight along Scotland’s border, being the tartan worn by rustlers and ruffians. Reluctantly adopting a more settled life, later generations of Armstrong men went down into the coal mine dungeons near Edinburgh to eke out a living for their families. The course of my family history began when my grandfather Armstrong glimpsed brighter days in Canada’s West. His sense of adventure may have been inspired by his cousin’s letters back to the old country from the Canadian frontier, filled with yarns spun from scouting a passage for the Canadian Pacific Railway through the forbidding barrier of the Rockies.
[It’s the birthday of Robbie Burns, Scotland’s national poet. In celebration, I believe I will forego the haggis, but perhaps imbibe a wee dram. There’s also this re-post, a sketch of family history, maternal (Armstrong) side.]
Tam Armstrong secured passage for his family on a ship out of Glasgow, bound across the wine dark sea for Nova Scotia. Along with various Stuarts, McEwens, and Smiths, they traversed the Atlantic, the convoy dodging U-boats during the First World War. Upon arrival in Halifax, they took a train across the verdant farmlands of eastern Canada to Toronto. From there, the CPR tracks reached to the north shore of Lake Superior, left that great inland sea behind, and struck out through the tractless pines and muskeg of Ontario’s wilderness. Finally, the train took the Armstrongs over the prairie, golden with wheat waving in the summer winds, to a coal-mining town on the eastern slope of the Rockies.
My mother often reminisced to me about her home town of Nordegg, an outpost of human activity encircled by the dark silence of the forests. Over the years, I heard a hundred stories, and remain firmly convinced that a few at least were true. Cougars sometimes strayed into Nordegg’s streets, and family legend held that one cat chased Uncle Andrew into his house. The Stoney Indians often showed up in town, and later disappeared back into the wilderness after having beguiled the white man in the Indian barter.
Yet, this mining town’s frontier brashness often yielded to Old Country courtesies. Nordegg was no rough-and-tumble mining camp, my mother insisted. A golf course, albeit with sand “greens,” followed the Saskatchewan River, grey with silt from melting glaciers at its headwaters. My mother’s Uncle Jock soloed on trumpet, when he was not anchoring the Nordegg brass ensemble. Proudly, my mother recalled the Literary Club, where miners discussed novels and plays, naturally with a Scottish burr. As her anecdotes sparkled, I imagined that the cultural life provided a welcome tonic for the deadening drudgery of mining coal.
But not all her memories spoke of the promise of spring. One October day, the mine’s whistle had screamed. Terrified wives and mothers ran to discover what they really did not want to know. Twenty-nine families mourned. Nordegg wore black. Uncle Jock, a pit boss whose warnings on hazardous conditions went unheeded, was among those who did not come up from underground. The newspaper articles about the disaster mentioned that Jock himself had lost a brother to a prior mine cave-in.
Beneath an autumn sky the color of lead, the funeral procession descended the hill along main street, black flatbed trucks each bearing six flower-draped coffins to the special cemetery plot. The entire town turned out, many trudging behind the trucks, while others mutely watched from the sidewalk, men and women with bared heads bowed, their faces ashen.
Sometime after the empty trucks returned to the mine, and the sidewalk witnesses retreated to the privacy of their homes, to the privacy of their sorrow and despair, the mine workers’ union built a monument at the cemetery. The simple stone sentinel bore the names of those lost. Thirty years later, on a family vacation, I had watched my mother weep at the grave site. “Jimmy McLaughlin, he was only eighteen,” was all she said.
The Nordegg mine, no longer profitable, closed after the Second War. The town soon followed, and cougars met no people in Nordegg streets. My grandparents, hoping to start anew, moved to nearby Edmonton. Neither my grandfather nor his descendants ever went into a coal mine again.
In the conversation that followed, we recalled the June day, over ten years ago, when we had first sat next to each other in a public speaking class. She teasingly reminded me how shy I had been.
I pictured her back then, sharing scenes from her social life: her stories a playful medley, drawing me in, subverting my best defenses. High school I had spent seeking refuge in a social cubbyhole. Finding myself seated next to this blonde, lissome girl proved a culture shock. I might as well have shared a desk with the goddess Athena; our early conversations had been that one-sided. Linda had been patient with her shy neighbor, and gradually our conversations became a partnership. Through getting to know her, I had stepped into the sunlight. Seeing her again, I wanted to share this, but it came out this way: “I still think of our conversations before class. You were quite the raconteur.”
As Georges Danton was to the French Revolution—“Audacity, audacity, and always audacity!”—so Ludwig van Beethoven was to music in their time.
Beethoven battled to create a musical revolution, to free the present from the past, a revolutionary tempest deposing aristocratic elegance. On an autumn evening, I looked forward to Sturm und Drang in musical form, courtesy of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra.
With a biting chill in the night air, winter served notice that its arrival was not far off, and the mild, sunny days of fall must give way. Inside Detroit’s Orchestra Hall, with its elegant decorations and muted light, warmth would well up from the music on stage .
The evening’s musical program began with a pleasant surprise, a mood piece unfamiliar to me. A discordant modern arrangement followed, with the evening’s anticipated musical sparks to be struck after the intermission.
After the brief respite, the musicians, in their black-and-white formal wear, returned to their places. The conductor strode briskly to the podium to generous applause. When he raised his baton, the orchestra came to life, like toy soldiers suddenly animated in a Christmas fantasy. The string section played the most recognizable opening bars in music, the staccato notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Fate knocking. Drawn in by the magnetism, the audience leaned forward in their seats.
The ominous tones of Fate were–after some lighter fare– answered by the clarion call of Heroism in the final movement, sung in shining tones by the brass instruments. In a liberation of emotion, the Hero triumphed in aggressive chords driving to the finale. The audience, released from the music’s grip, responded with its own storm of applause.
The symphony is symbolic of Beethoven himself, or of the Revolutions of his time, if you prefer.
Strolling out again into the crisp night, I found myself reflecting that the heroic spirit of Beethoven’s Fifth lies dormant in our time. It is perhaps sleeping in a vault with old clips of John F. Kennedy speaking, his finger jabbing the air. Or captured on grainy film of Jackie Robinson dancing on the base paths, and facing down the racists as he broke major league baseball’s color bar.
Today, we are in desperate need of men and women to take up the baton, to show audacity in the face of today’s pervasive cynicism and nihilism. Fate is knocking, yet we await Heroes to answer the call.
Abraham Lincoln’s expressive face impressed an author who remembered Lincoln’s gray-brown eyes as perhaps the saddest he had ever seen. “Yet, when a good story was told,” the author recalled, “whether by himself or another, his homely face lighted up till he was positively handsome.” In a largely pre-photographic world, however, the American people would come to know their president’s human quality by his moral courage and empathy.
As the green leaves of summer took on fall colors in 1862, one year after the Civil War’s opening battles, Lincoln’s courage and political judgment faced a defining test. The president announced, on the eve of a critical election, that he would issue the Emancipation Proclamation, which would put slavery on the path to extinction. Significant numbers of the North’s white voters, harboring visceral racial prejudices, despised the Proclamation. Even moderate Republicans balked over this issue. As a result, Lincoln’s party suffered major losses in that fall’s Congressional elections.
Why had not Lincoln, arguably American history’s shrewdest politician, waited until after the elections for his unpopular move? Certainly, that has been the course taken by recent presidents. Yet, Lincoln knew that the loyalty and trust of the common people was an asset to be valued far above rubies, in the words of Proverbs, and not to be wasted buying electoral advantage with dishonesty. If the nation were to endure the Civil War, he needed the people’s trust. Indeed, for the coming trial by fire, Lincoln needed to win their love. Losing Congressional seats was simply the price that had to be paid to strengthen Lincoln’s bond with the people–as someone who meant what he said. Such is the sterner stuff of which leadership is made.
It does not surprise us to learn that when the Union cause was at its low ebb, the common people, though war weary, retained their personal affection for Lincoln. Their faith in him endured, even during the summer of 1864, when the casualty lists from the murderous battles in Virginia brought sorrow to every crossroads hamlet and town in the North. Their ranks dwindling daily, the toughest soldiers on the planet, the Union’s Army of the Potomac, still knew Lincoln simply as Father Abraham. Their chosen name for him testified both to their religious faith and their love for their commander. The reverential term, used by black and white soldiers alike, expressed as clearly as a bell that true leadership’s touchstone is love. With this emotional bond, Lincoln’s soldiers gave their last full measure of devotion, winning for the nation a new birth of freedom.