by Studs Terkel
“I returned to the South and continued my work in Birmingham. They preferred charges against me for heresy. It was confirmed by the Presbyterian General Assembly. I returned to Detroit and was ordained in a Negro church.”
I’ve used the Bible as a workingman’s book. You’ll find the prophets—Moses, Amos, Isaiah and the Son of Man, Old Testament and New—you’ll find they were fighting for justice and freedom. On the other side, you find the Pharaohs, the Pilates, the Herods, and the people in the summer houses and the winter houses. These people like John the Baptist are our people and speak our word, but they’ve been kidnapped by the others and alien words put in their mouth to make us find what they want us to find. Our word is our sword.
I interpreted this for the sharecroppers. We had to meet in little churches, white and black. It was in the tradition of the old underground railway. I translated the Bible from the vertical to the horizontal. How can I reach this man and not further confuse him? He had only one book, the Bible. This had to be the book of rights and wrongs. True religion put to work for the fraternity of all people. All passages in the Book that could be used to further this day I underlined in red pencil. The Book fell open tome.
The rabble-rousers hated me. I had the longest horns in the country because I was using the very book they were using. I turned the guns the other way, as it were. I interpreted as I thought the prophets would interpret it, given the situation.
“We have a religious phenomenon in America that has its origin in the South. Established churches followed urban trends. People out here were isolated and delivered religion on the basis of what they saw. Store-bought clothes—which they could not buy out of poverty—became worldly and sinful: ‘We had rather be beggars in the House of the Lord than dwell in king’s palaces.’ They were denied schooling. They were called rednecks and crackers and damn niggers. But the Bible was God’s Book. Refused access to medical aid, faith healed the body as well as the soul: ‘We seek another world.’ It was a protest against things economically unavailable. I interpreted this protest and related it to the Bible—instead of calling them hillbillies and rednecks.
“At one gathering five or six Klansmen were around. I said, ‘I want to speak about the Ku Klux Klan.’ All the people who are in the Klan are not vicious. My brother was a member. You try to reach people at the consciousness of their needs. I quoted Peter on the day of Pentecost: ‘Save yourselves, don’t wait for somebody else.’ Peter made contact with every person in the language in which he was born. I won over a number of Klansmen.
“I translated the democratic impulse of mass religion rather than its protofascist content into a language they understood. That’s what got me in trouble with the synod. I was on trial. They asked me how I felt about the divinity of Jesus. 1 said, ‘I believe in the divinity but not the deity of Jesus.’ They didn’t know the difference. The divinity is God’s likeness, the deity is Godship. I had the Son of Man as a carpenter.
“The preachers tell a story from the Bible, entertain for an hour or so and then come back to it. Young radicals try to clarify every issue in one speech. People are confused, go out and scratch their heads. And the kid says: What’s the matter with those dumb people? The demagogues are smarter—they entertain. I’ve tried to beat them at their own game. But you’ve got to know where to check the emotion.”
In Winston-Salem, when we went out to organize the tobacco workers, the leader said: “If you crack this in two years, it’ll be a miracle.” We went to the oldest church. It was a bitter night. The pastor was a white woman, sitting there with an army blanket around her shoulders and a little old hat. I knew she was the bellwether. Unless I got her, I got nobody.
I gave the gospel of the Kings: Good News is only good when it feeds the poor. This woman pastor got up and drawled: “Well, this is the first time I heard the gospel of three square meals a day, and I want in on it. I love to shout and now I know every time I shout, I know I need shoes.” First thing I know, she was touching cadence and going way off.
I jumped up and said, “Wait.” (He unwinds into a rapid-fire sermon.) “I charge you before the Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, who will judge the quick and the dead. Preach the Word. Thy word is truth, truth is thy word. Being instant, inside season, out of season, reprove, rebuke, for the time will come, Sister Price, the time will come for the kings. When they heap to themselves teachers, and theologians endowed by robber barons, to take people from the people, boys and girls, and teach them to take orders, and not to discuss controversial subjects as to offend—and to say: ‘Don’t believe there’s such a thing as poverty. Boss John has your best interests at heart. And if you die of fatigue or malnutrition or pneumonia or lack of medical care, your most precious soul will be borne on the wings of lily-white angels in a home 140 million light years away.’ Turn away from truth and we’ll be turned away. Sister Price, we can’t turn away from truth. We’ll sing a song.” (He sings.) “Let the will of the Lord be done—in the home, in the school, in the church, in the union….”
I had to translate this emotion into action. But if I’d let her go on shouting, we’d never have made it. In three months, they called a labor board election. We won. We called on the Bible and the Son of Man.
The Gentleman from Kansas
Alf M. Landon
Two-term Governor of Kansas; elected in 1932; reelected in 1934. Republican candidate for President in 1936.
We are in Topeka. As we are approaching Landon’s office, there’s casual conversation with the cab driver. He is thirty years old. He was born and raised in this city.
“There’s Alf Landon.” (He was sauntering up the pathway.)
“Never heard of him.”
“Don’t you know who he was?”
“Can’t recall the name.”
“Folks never told you … ?”
“No.”
“They ever tell you about Roosevelt?”
“Roosevelt was in service. He was Rough Riders.”
“Teddy Roosevelt … ?”
“Right.”
“Did they tell you about Franklin Roosevelt?”
“No. Not so much about that. Most people called him Teddy.”
“Did your folks ever tell you about the Depression?”
“Things were hard to get, things were bad, fight for what you got.”
Alf Landon is a sprightly and genial eighty-two. Booted, he appears as though he’d just come in from the wheat fields. The walls of his office are decorated with mementoes and photographs; friends and colleagues of another day: Colonel Frank Knox (his 1936 running mate), Congressman Joe Martin, H. L. Mencken, World War I buddies, college football team mates, his father and a young Alf… .
THOSE WERE hard times for Governors, especially in ‘33. For sixty days, there was not standing room in my reception hall. Men with tears in their eyes begged for an appointment that would help save their homes and farms. I couldn’t see them all in my office. But I never let one of them leave without my coming out and shakin’ hands with ‘em. I listened to all their stories, each one of ’em. But it was obvious I couldn’t take care of all their terrible needs. If I could make some suggestion, I did that. It was a harrowing experience. I’ve never forgotten it.
On top of the Depression was the drought. It set in around ‘30 and lasted till about ’37, ’38. Black blizzards. Even here in Topeka, visibility was three blocks at most. In the spring of ’35, I saw President Roosevelt. He sent M. L. Wilson out here—Assistant Secretary of Agriculture. We spent two days driving across Kansas. At times, we couldn’t see past the radiator. I told him all about our flood problems and drought. As a result, President Roosevelt established a farm pond program. Federal aid. Prior to that, farmers did the best they could. The state today is dotted with these farm ponds.
And the farm mortgages were coming due. That’s why my reception room was so jammed. As part of Mr. Roosevelt’s program, I appointed a conciliation committee of three men in each county. To extend time whe
rever possible. In many cases, I personally called the local bank or insurance company and succeeded in working out a moratorium. Since the bankers got their holiday, why shouldn’t the farmers? We were among the first states to declare mortgage moratoriums. The courts declared it unconstitutional, so we worked out the committees. We practically stopped all the sales. And there were no riots in Kansas.
My relations with Mr. Roosevelt were always very pleasant. I never went to Washington that I never failed to call on him to pay my respects. But I always respected the pressure on his time. The President never failed to clear his appointment list for me. Once I kept Mrs. Roosevelt and General Marshall waiting. Some enthusiastic Republicans would criticize me. Didn’t bother me.
The New Deal accomplished practices in land management that farm colleges had been teaching. These programs were necessary at the time. In’36, I advocated a long range land-use study, which we’d never had. There were two uses that were hardly considered: reclamation and recreation.
How come the Republicans chose you as the 1936 candidate?
The campaign started in the grass roots. I didn’t pay too much attention to it. Some friends of mine formed a committee. My campaign strategy was this: I would not fight against any favorite sons. But it was like a brush fire, I guess. The Ohio delegation wanted to name me. They said the campaign would be underwritten by the head of a big banking chain. I said, “That’s the very reason I won’t enter Ohio. I’m not gonna be under anyone’s obligation.” I’ve never been owned by anybody.
We put a $2500 limit on contributions to our campaign. Roy Roberts145 said he never saw so much money being waved under the noses of candidates in his life. Hoover addressed the convention. It was in Cleveland. Frank Knox told me afterwards there was a plan to get together on Hoover. He was eager to run again. But he didn’t have much delegate support.
Why would they seek you out—an old progressive Republican, an old Bull Moose man … ?
(He had started out as Bull Moose county chairman in 1914. In 1922, he bolted the Republican Party to support the Emporia editor, William Allen White, as independent candidate in a campaign against the Ku Klux Klan.)
I don’t know.
Did you express much disagreement with the New Deal program?
Not too much. In my telegram to the convention, I wanted a declaration in favor of the gold standard. The platform committee—Eastern establishment, if you want to use a current phrase (laughs)—was all for a little snack of inflation. I challenged them. “The wild jackasses” of the prairie states were with me. I interpreted the plank on social security very liberally. This was before the roll call started. I made it known that the platform didn’t suit me. But they nominated me unanimously. (Laughs.) I assume my feeling fitted the feeling of the delegates more than it did the platform committee.
I was accused of being too much of a me-too New Dealer by some of the staunch Republicans. They couldn’t see the necessity of staying in tune with the times. They were out of touch.
This so-called welfare state is a unique combination of socialism and capitalism, and we’d better make it work. I’ve said this many times. I had not used the word “socialism” in any speech I made during the campaign. I was not afraid of “creeping socialism” as much as I was of creeping inflation.
I always felt if we kept our money sound and recognized the rights of labor to protect themselves as well as their women and children, and of farmers to organize, we’d work out of this. I’ve always been in favor of collective bargaining. And co-ops for farmers.
If you take Mr. Roosevelt’s program today in light of what both Republicans and Democrats are standing for, he’d be pretty conservative. I’ve never condemned Roosevelt’s objectives, just his Administration.
Do you feel the New Deal saved our society?
By and large? (Pause.) Yes.
In a nutshell, the basic problem of any government today is to keep alive circulation from the bottom to the top. Through collective bargaining and cooperatives.
You sound to me like a Populist nominated by the wrong party.
(He laughs. He discusses the early Populists and their contributions to many of the reforms, accepted today. He expresses particular admiration for Bob La Follette.)
Weren’t the eastern bankers worried about you?
I don’t know. A lot of ’em were for me. They knew how I felt. Maybe they were just desperate. (Laughs.)
If I’d been Mr. Hoover in ’30, when Senator La Follette—Bob, Jr.—introduced a bill for a $10 billion appropriation in public works. I would have passed it. We needed those dams that were subsequently built for flood control and the pollution of rivers. Hoover vetoed it.
I didn’t feel too bad when I lost in ’36. I probably could have gone to the Senate, but I felt the Republican Party needed one leader, who was not a candidate for public office. Politics with me was an avocation, not a vocation.
Did you ever feel you were going to win?
Once. When I was in New York for the Madison Square Garden meeting, Henry Allen, the former Kansas Governor, received a call from the editor of the Literary Digest: Come over and see our polls. Landon’s going to win. That night, I got as far as picking my Secretary of State—and then I woke up. (Laughs.)
Could you explain the Digest poll?
No. (Chuckles.) I think they deliberately weighted it.
On my way to New York for the big parade down Fifth Avenue, I stopped off at Newark. I asked Governor Edge what chance I had in New Jersey. He said, “No chance.” He asked, “What’s the chance in the country?” I said, “No chance.” A young fellow was sitting in the corner. I thought he was in Edge’s party. He was a reporter. Edge jumped up excitedly. “I’ll call his publisher. I know him, he’s a Republican. I’ll stop it.” I said, “Sit down. I’ll handle this.” The young fellow was scared. I called the editor and I said, “Your reporter is perfectly entitled to that story. And if you print it, I won’t deny one word of it. But you might as well call off the election. I’m not going to call your publisher or anyone else. Your reporter is standing here, and it’s up to you.” They didn’t print it.
The campaign did have its good moments. I was invited to speak at the Union League Club. Their annual Lincoln Day Dinner in 1936. I said, no, I’m not coming. I was told no one had ever been nominated at a Republican convention, who hadn’t spoken to the Union League Club. I said, “So what?” (Chuckles.)
I did speak there the following year, after I’d lost. I met Ray Moley there. He said, “Do you know what Roosevelt was most afraid of in the campaign?” I said, “I didn’t think he had anything to be afraid of.” Moley said, “He was afraid his radio delivery had become so perfect that people would think it’s artificial.” I said, “Good. There might be some benefit in the antithesis of our radio deliveries.” I was pretty rough. I guess I got too much antithesis. (Laughs.)
I was endorsed by every Democratic ex-Presidential nominee, except Cox. When I got to New York for the big meeting, my room was jammed. Al Smith was there. I’d never met him before. As he was about to leave, I said, “Governor, I just want you to know that I understand you walked the floor many hours before you decided to support me, a Republican—thinking of the men and women that have worked for your nomination for Governor, have driven through rain and snow to get out and vote for you, tacked up your cards on trees and fence poles all over the state. I realize only your belief that America is in great danger ever induced you to support me.” Al’s eyes filled with tears. He said, “I thought you’d understand.” And he turned and walked out.
You felt he really felt that … our country was in great danger?
Yes.
Did you feel that?
No.
On the way back to the airport, a forty-eight-year-old cabbie responds. He’s a World War II veteran.
“Does Alf Landon’s name ring a bell?”
“Oh yeah. He ran for Governor. I was a kid. He even run for President.”
�
�Who did he run against?”
“I don’t remember that. I remember he ran just because he was a Kansas governor.”
“Franklin D. Roosevelt.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right.”
“What about Roosevelt?”
“He brought this country out of it. You bet. I remember it. I’m afraid we’re gonna have another one… .”
A View of the Wood
Christopher Lasch
American historian; author of The New Radicalism in America and The Agony of the American Left.
THERE WAS SOME TALK about the possibility of revolution in the early Thirties, during the worst years of the Depression, especially in ‘34, when men like Huey Long and Coughlin and Townsend identified themselves with the groundswell of dissidence. There were various kinds of spontaneous action, by the farmers of Iowa, for instance. There was fear in some quarters that a kind of revolutionary crisis was developing. This fear—if not of revolution, of some kind of upheaval—created a sense of urgency in the White House and in Congress, too. It may have provided the impetus for the reforms that were pushed through in late ’34 and ’35.
In retrospect, I don’t think there was a revolutionary situation in America in the early Thirties, certainly not the kind of situation that would have led to socialism if the New Deal reforms hadn’t been carried out. There was a demand for vigorous, authoritative leadership. Industrialists clamored for central control, even nationalization of some industries. Harold Ickes, in his diary, talks of industrialists descending on Washington, demanding that the Government take over the oil industry. I think if a semblance of vigorous leadership hadn’t been forthcoming on the part of Roosevelt, there might have built up the kind of pressure that swept Mussolini into power in Italy. It is conceivable, in other words, that the government might have been forced into extreme measures, but I doubt that these would have taken a left-wing direction.
