Despite repeated public appeals by Kennedy for prompt action and support from a Business Committee for Tax Reduction organized by the administration and including prominent businessmen like Henry Ford II and David Rockefeller, Kennedy could not get his bill passed. A tax cut won a House vote on September 25, but it had been stripped of the reform features that promised to close loopholes and generate $4.5 billion in additional revenues. The likelihood that the deficit would now be that much higher brought Senate approval into doubt. Albert Gore remained a particular problem. He wanted to slow things down by holding extended hearings, and his opposition enraged Kennedy, who repeatedly called him “a son of a bitch” in a meeting with economic advisers on September 30. “If we get a good recession next summer, it’s not going to do him much good, is it?” Kennedy said. By the third week in November, the Senate Finance Committee had still not concluded its hearings, and prospects for passage of a bill in 1963 seemed dim. In a conversation with Dillon and Fowler, Kennedy lamented: “If we don’t get that tax bill, [the country] will pay a hell of a price for it.”
BY CONTRAST WITH HIS BUOYANT PUSH for the tax bill, during the first five and a half months of 1963, Kennedy maintained a cautious approach to civil rights. After issuing the limited housing order in November 1962, he refused to initiate a more comprehensive civil rights program, especially a major legislative attack on segregation, which he continued to believe would make passage of his tax, education, and medical reform bills impossible by antagonizing southern Democrats. Though the same earlier strategy had failed to advance these measures, he still assumed that avoiding a head-on congressional clash over civil rights would at least preserve some chance of getting his other reforms approved. Besides, he continued to believe that executive initiatives could be an effective, if temporary, substitute for congressional action on advancing equal rights for blacks.
If he was legislatively passive, he was at least rhetorically aggressive. In his State of the Union Message, Kennedy urged that “the most precious and powerful right in the world, the right to vote . . . not be denied to any citizen on grounds of his race or color. . . . In this centennial year of Emancipation all those who are willing to vote should always be permitted.” In his January economic message to Congress, he tied “an end to racial and religious discrimination” to economic growth. The development and effective use of “our human resources” was vital to the national well-being. In February, after receiving a Civil Rights Commission report on a hundred years of racial discrimination, he praised the courage of black citizens fighting to throw off “legal, economic, and social bonds—bonds which, in holding back part of our Nation, have compromised the conscience and haltered the power of all the Nation. In freeing themselves, the Negroes have enlarged the freedoms of all Americans . . . . [Yet] too many of the bonds of restriction still exist. The distance still to be traveled one hundred years after the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation is at once a reproach and a challenge.” America must not rest “until the promise of equal rights for all has been fulfilled.”
At the end of February, Kennedy called upon Congress to eliminate abuses of black rights. The catalogue of wrongs was transparent: Black children were about half as likely to complete high school as whites and had one-third as much chance of earning a college degree or of becoming a professional. They had about twice as much chance of becoming unemployed, with only half the earning power and seven fewer years of life than whites. Discrimination reduced economic growth, hampered our world leadership by contradicting our message of freedom, marred “the atmosphere of a united and classless society,” and increased “the costs of public welfare, crime, delinquency and disorder.” But “above all,” Kennedy said, “it is wrong. . . . It is not merely because of the Cold War, and not merely because of the economic waste of discrimination, that we are committed to achieving true equality of opportunity. The basic reason is because it is right.”
He described denial of the franchise as especially egregious. Five southern states had “over 200 counties in which fewer than 15% of the Negroes of voting age are registered to vote. This cannot continue,” Kennedy declared. “I am, therefore, recommending legislation to deal with the problem.” He also urged the fulfillment of the Supreme Court’s nine-year-old decision on desegregation of public schools, the enforcement of fair hiring and other labor practices, and the end to racial segregation in all places of public accommodation—hotels, restaurants, theaters, recreational facilities, airports, rail and bus stations, and all means of public transportation. “Surely there could be no more meaningful observance of the centennial [of Lincoln’s Proclamation]” Kennedy concluded, “than the enactment of effective civil rights legislation and the continuation of effective executive action.”
Yet, since he was still thinking of the consequences for his overall agenda, Kennedy’s actions did not match his words. It was still only in the realm of voting rights that Kennedy actually offered legislation. He refused to risk his 1963 congressional program by supporting reform of Rule XXII, which would reduce the votes needed to end a filibuster from two-thirds to three-fifths—relevant since a filibuster seemed likely in the case of civil rights but not in response to his other reform proposals. Nor did he follow his February message to Congress with specific recommendations for ending southern segregation.
In March, a reporter asked Kennedy to comment on Governor Rockefeller’s assertion that he had been “appointing ‘segregationist judges’ to the Federal bench in the South.” The reporter also pointed out that “that had blunted [to] a certain amount the aggressive stand that the executive branch had taken against segregation.” Kennedy responded defensively: “No. I think that some of the judges may not have ruled as I would have ruled in their cases. In those cases there is always the possibility for an appeal.” Overall, he said, the southern judges appointed by him and Eisenhower had a “very creditable record.” In a telephone conversation the next day with Deputy Attorney General Nicholas Katzenbach, Kennedy and Katzenbach were more candid, naming several judges who were problematic. But instead of trying to do something about it, they thought of short-term political equations. Katzenbach pointed out that they had “as much trouble from Republican appointees down there as . . . from the Democrats.” Kennedy said he wanted the Justice Department “to get up a memo on . . . the Republicans and Democrats ’cause . . . this might get to be one of those issues they keep talking about. So I’ll be able to talk about [the Republican segregationist judges] in case it comes up again.” The strategy was to mask his administration’s shortcomings on judicial appointments by demonstrating that Eisenhower’s were even worse or, at least, no better.
At the end of April, Kennedy was on the defensive again about his refusal to accept a Civil Rights Commission recommendation that the federal government cut off funds to Mississippi until it complied with court orders protecting blacks from violence and discrimination. Since Kennedy would not follow the commission’s recommendation, a reporter asked, “Could you discuss with us what alternative steps the Federal Government might be able to take to bring some of these [southern] States into line with the law of the land?” Kennedy replied that his administration had instituted lawsuits to remedy the problems. But he accurately described it as “very difficult,” because “we do not have direct jurisdiction.” He said that “a blanket withdrawal of Federal expenditures from a State” was beyond his powers, but he was using every “legislative and legal tool at our command to insure protection for the rights of our citizens.”
By the spring of 1963, Kennedy’s frustration over civil rights was greater than ever. He felt he had exercised stronger executive leadership in support of equal racial opportunity than any administration in U.S. history. His Justice Department had filed forty-two lawsuits in support of black voting rights. He had fought the battle of Mississippi to enroll Meredith in the university. He had appointed forty blacks to important administration posts and elevated Thurgood Marshall to the federal Circuit Court of
Appeals in New York. Though belatedly, he had signed the Executive Order barring discrimination in federally financed public housing. He had also recommended a voting rights law, but public and congressional apathy had stalled it in committee. But his failure to request a ban on segregation in places of public accommodation had been glaring and evoked continuing complaints that he was too timid and that only a bold proposal for change could end the injustices of discrimination and produce real progress for African Americans.
Tensions in the administration over how to handle civil rights problems produced a running battle between Bobby and Johnson. Bobby was convinced that unless the administration delivered on greater equality for blacks, it would miss a chance to advance simple justice for an oppressed minority, lose liberal support, and alienate millions of voters by appearing ineffective and weak. Fearful that his brother could lose the 1964 election over a failure to produce enough gains on civil rights, Bobby pressed everyone in the administration to do their utmost. Burke Marshall recalls that Bobby “fussed and interfered . . . with almost every other department of the government in 1963 . . . on their employment policies, and on whether or not Negroes were allowed to participate in federally financed programs.” As head of the Committee on Equal Employment Opportunity, Johnson became a principal target of Bobby’s prodding. Johnson was proud of the committee’s record in 1962 after Troutman had resigned and Hobart Taylor, Johnson’s appointee, had replaced him. The committee had increased black job holding in the federal government that year by 17 percent and doubled the number of remedial actions taken by private contractors in response to complaints from black employees. Johnson also took pride in public statements echoing the president’s call for an end to segregation and racism. Yet Johnson’s rhetoric, like Kennedy’s, was an inadequate substitute for effective action. The gains made by the CEEO resulted in no more than an upward blip in black employment. Moreover, newspaper stories during the first half of 1963 describing the CEEO’s Plans for Progress as “largely meaningless” persuaded Bobby that Johnson’s committee was “mostly a public relations operation” and that Taylor was “an Uncle Tom.” Bobby worried not only about the limited gains in black employment but also about the committee’s impact on the 1964 campaign. “I could just see going into the election of 1964,” he said later, “and eventually these statistics or figures would get out. There would just be a public scandal.” Bobby also recalled that when he spoke to the president about the problem, he “almost had a fit.”
At CEEO meetings in May and July, after police attacks on black demonstrators in Birmingham, Alabama, had put civil rights back in the headlines, Bobby gave clear expression to White House dissatisfaction with the committee’s performance. According to one observer, he treated Johnson “in a most vicious manner. He’d ridicule him, imply he was insincere.” In May Bobby “asked a lot of questions that were impatient, very impatient,” Burke Marshall said. “It made the Vice President mad.” Bobby blamed Johnson and Taylor for the 1 percent black federal employment in Birmingham, a city with a 37 percent black population. “I was humiliated,” Johnson said afterward. At the July meeting, Bobby made NASA’s James Webb the target of his complaints. Webb, who was working closely with Johnson on space plans, had no information on black employment at NASA, and Bobby castigated him for neglecting the issue. “It was a pretty brutal performance, very sharp,” one participant recalled. “It brought tensions between Johnson and Kennedy right out on the table and very hard. Everybody was sweating under the armpits. . . . And then finally, after completely humiliating Webb and making the Vice President look like a fraud and shutting Hobart Taylor up completely, he got up. He walked around the table . . . shook my hand . . . and then he went on out.”
The clashes between Bobby and Johnson were partly personal. “No affection contaminated the relationship between the Vice President and the Attorney General,” Schlesinger remembered. “It was a pure case of mutual dislike.” Seventeen years, six inches in height, and “southwestern exaggeration against Yankee understatement” separated them. “Robert Kennedy, in the New England manner, liked people to keep their physical distance. Johnson, in the Texas manner, was all over everybody—always the grip on the shoulder, tug at the lapel, nudge in the ribs, squeeze of the knee.”
Both men were powerful, at times overbearing, tyrannical characters who did not treat opponents kindly. They were tough alley fighters, hell-bent on winning at almost any cost. Intimidation and hard bargains were weapons they carried into their political campaigns for high office and legislative gains. They also shared bold, indeed, noble dreams for the country of better race relations, less poverty, and security from foreign threats. They held a common regard for the national system that had allowed them both to gain prominence and power. But each self-righteously saw the other as less capable of achieving the great ends bringing them together in the same party and the same administration. Although the president kept his distance from the Bobby-Johnson tensions and had little taste for the personal abuse Bobby used against adversaries, he seems to have accepted his brother’s harsh treatment of Johnson as a necessary prod to making him a more effective member of the administration.
IN APRIL, MARTIN LUTHER KING and the Alabama Southern Christian Leadership Conference launched a campaign in Birmingham to challenge the city’s segregated facilities and employment practices. TCI, the Tennessee Coal, Iron & Railroad Company, the city’s leading employer, had only eight black white-collar employees out of a workforce of twelve hundred. Most black men in Birmingham worked in the least desirable blue-collar jobs, while those black women who worked usually served as domestics. The city administration had no black policemen, firemen, or elected representatives. Because it was one of the most racist communities in the South, any sort of victory for equal treatment would represent an opening wedge in the struggle to change the mores of the whole region. And because Eugene “Bull” Connor, the city’s police commissioner, seemed certain to reply with repressive tactics likely to make the national news and draw the Kennedy administration into the struggle, the city became the ideal target for a renewed attack on southern racism.
Connor and the city fathers did not disappoint King and SCLC protesters. On May 3 and 4, when black demonstrators, including many high school and some elementary schoolchildren, marched in defiance of a city ban, the police and firemen attacked the marchers with police dogs that bit several demonstrators, and high-pressure fire hoses that knocked marchers down and tore off their clothes. The TV images, broadcast across the country and around the world, graphically showed out-of-control racists abusing innocent, young advocates of equal rights. Kennedy, looking at a picture on the front page of the New York Times and TV news coverage of a dog lunging to bite a teenager on the stomach, said that the photo made him “sick.”
Still, Kennedy’s initial response to the crisis was a moderate urge to compromise. For the sake of civic peace, America’s international reputation, and King’s public influence, Kennedy wanted to negotiate a quick halt to the Birmingham strife.
He viewed Birmingham’s power brokers as unreasonable reflectors of outdated social mores whose unyielding racism threatened their city’s civic peace and prosperity. He also saw an end to racial strife in the South as essential to America’s international standing in its competition with Moscow for influence in Third World countries. But at the same time, while he sympathized with the crusade against southern racism, Kennedy also saw King as self-serving and possibly under the influence of communists trying to embarrass the United States. J. Edgar Hoover fanned the flames of suspicion about King or, more to the point, about two of King’s associates, Stanley Levison and Hunter Pitts O’Dell, whom he accused of being communists. (Although Levison had ended his ties with the Communist Party in 1956, his history made him vulnerable to Hoover’s accusations. And because Hoover was so emphatic about Levison’s ongoing radicalism, and because the FBI had a reputation for successfully identifying subversives, Bobby and Burke Marshall found it
difficult to ignore their warnings.) A drawn-out crisis in Birmingham might persuade Hoover to leak stories to the media that communist subversives were manipulating King in Alabama.
At a press conference on May 8, Kennedy declared that in the absence of violations of federal civil rights or other statutes, he was working to bring “both sides together to settle in a peaceful fashion the very real abuses too long inflicted on the Negro citizens of that community.” He intended to halt “a spectacle which was seriously damaging the reputation of both Birmingham and the country.” A reporter wanted to know if “a fireside chat on civil rights would serve a constructive purpose.” “If I thought it would I would give one,” Kennedy replied. But he had his doubts. “I made a speech the night of Mississippi—at Oxford—to the citizens of Mississippi and others,” he said. “That did not seem to do much good.” Afterward, Civil Rights commissioner Erwin Griswold publicly complained, “It seems clear to me that he hasn’t even started to use the powers that are available to him.” An angry Kennedy said privately, “That son of a bitch. Let him try.”
Finding a middle ground between the segregationists and the SCLC seemed like an insurmountable challenge. Understanding that King was intent on full integration, in all the city’s public facilities, including its retail businesses, Birmingham’s white leaders viewed any compromises as opening the way to a social revolution repugnant to most whites in the city, state, and region.
Nevertheless, Kennedy sent Burke Marshall to Birmingham to work out a settlement. King believed that the administration wanted him to suspend demonstrations until the Alabama Supreme Court had ruled on the legitimacy of a more moderate city government battling Connor for control of city hall. But King saw delay as defeat. In a famous letter to white clergymen written from the Birmingham jail, where he had been imprisoned after an April demonstration, King expressed disappointment at their opposition to civil disobedience and their counsels of patience. He wrote: “‘Wait’ has almost always meant ‘Never.’ . . . When you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of ‘nobodiness’—then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait.”
An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy 1917-1963 Page 77
