There were no guarantees, they knew, but at the same time they felt a new strength emerging—a refusal to be run out of their home by the mob. They would have to take a stand. “Well,” Daisy replied, “we have to make it our first night sooner or later, so we might as well start now.” In the bassinet, they heard Lynda fussing again. “If we’re killed in that house,” Daisy told Bill, “the baby will be too young to know. At least we’ll have the boys to carry on.”
Twelve
THE MISSING THUMB
AUGUST 1957 WAS supposed to be a month of celebrations for Bill Levitt. Levittown, New York, was getting ready to honor its tenth anniversary with a communitywide bash in October. There would be a beauty contest and a festive ball. Fashionable townies would dance to all the year’s biggest hits—such as “That’ll Be the Day” by Buddy Holly and the Crickets—late into the night. Levittowners flooded the mom-and-pop stores along the town’s communal parks, the village greens. They would even have a float chugging down the main road to honor the town’s fairy-tale rise from the potato fields, like a beanstalk from a magic garden, after the war ended not long ago.
While the Levitt legacy was being honored, Bill and his brother, Alfred, were busy building their next ventures. Bill now had enough land to build his next Levittown—Levittown, New Jersey, which was on track to open the following year. Alfred, now on his own, was building an apartment complex on Long Island. The two brothers were still congenial, even though they no longer worked together. Abe, happily retired, tended to his own gardens and joked that both his sons were constructing communities near mental institutions. “All is all right,” he said, “the boys are building close to insane asylums.”
But despite the growth and honors, it was becoming painfully clear that Bill’s new reign as the sole Levitt of Levitt & Sons was jeopardizing the company’s brand name. While he sat in the back of his chauffeured limousine getting whisked from restaurant to nightclubs in New York or between his family in the city, and his life in the secret castle in Pennsylvania, it was difficult to escape the scandal exploding around Deep-green Lane. The fairy tale was in danger of being overshadowed by reality.
In the past, Bill Levitt had found creative ways to maintain control of his own story. He wrote his own press releases, conducted his own press conferences, and the reporters eagerly regurgitated the heroic story of the builder who saved America. When there had been outrage over his desire to change the name of Island Trees to Levittown in New York, Levitt responded by buying and becoming the publisher of the local paper—and silencing his critics. The national press had, meanwhile, focused largely on spreading the fairy-tale version of the Levittown story and was still slow to cover the emerging civil rights movement in depth. The Levittown Times in Pennsylvania supported Levitt by refusing to publish an editorial denouncing the riot against the Myerses.
Other local publications, however, began to take aim at America’s most famous builder. BILL LEVITT THE CULPRIT was the headline on a damning editorial in the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin: “Levittown was conceived and built as an all-white community by William Levitt without any concern of the social implication involved. From the beginning all Negro applicants were turned down on the sole basis of color. The builder let it be known that he would not under any circumstances sell a single house to any Negro, regardless of his character or financial status. It is reasonable to assume that Mr. Levitt used racial prejudice against Negroes as one of his chief selling points . . . Thoughtful citizens pointed out to Levitt the unfairness of his enterprise and disastrous results which would naturally follow from the establishment of such a town in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. But he was not interested in the valiant struggle being made in this State by public officials and civic-minded citizens to improve the relationship between white and colored citizens. His only concern was to make money.”
For Levitt, the moneygrubbing accusations fed on the worst stereotypes. In fact, he was a generous philanthropist, particularly in support of Jewish causes. During the war, Levitt had led his local chapter of the United Jewish Appeal for Refugees and Overseas Needs to fund Jews facing persecution in Eastern Europe. Since then, he had made many donations to the state of Israel.
But his stance on civil rights was tarnishing his image. Meanwhile, the Wechslers provided a different Jewish response to the struggles of African-Americans: not divisiveness, but solidarity. Levitt’s refusal to take such a stand led critics to hold him accountable for the ugliest of crimes. “Of course,” the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin editorial concluded, “the hoodlums who stoned the home of the Myers’ family this week are not blameless and deserve the scorn of all decent people, but the real culprit is Bill Levitt, the architect and builder of this cess-pool of hate.”
For the ambitious tycoon, the Levittown fantasy was being torn down before his eyes. “Levittown is a disgrace to America!” wrote the Philadelphia Tribune. “The people responsible for this Jim Crow town in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania are as prejudiced as the most anti-Negro bigot in the Deep South.” In nearby Trenton, New Jersey, Levittown’S SHAME was the title of an editorial in the Trenton Evening Times. “Levittown is a new and attractive community which so far in its brief history has had a creditable record of good neighborly relations and orderly behavior by its residents,” the item read. “It is in many respects a model town . . . [but] this demonstration of racial antagonism reveals an unseemly and repulsive aspect of life in a community whose people enjoy many superior advantages. Something better in the way of tolerance was to be expected of them . . . It is not conceivable that this demonstration of mob violence is representative of the spirit of Levittown as a whole.”
The battle was, in fact, not just bringing out the ugly side of Levittown; it was also bringing out the inspirational. Every day, legions of supporters turned out to join the Myerses’ and Wechslers’ stands. Lew’s United Steelworkers Union asked members in an editorial printed on the front page of the union newspaper “not to participate in any un-American acts of bigotry” and to “unite with the law enforcement bodies and the many good people of Levittown to help stop these acts of bigotry.”
The working people in the Bucks County area began to line up against Levitt too. The Joint Council representing thirty thousand members of the Amalgamated Meatcutters and Butcher Workmen condemned “the disgraceful incidents following purchase by a Negro family of a home in Levittown.” The president of the group said, “It is shocking that within the area enshrining Independence Hall, the cradle of our liberty, and in a state founded by men and women fleeing from authoritarian restriction of their civil rights, we should witness a racist outbreak hitherto thought possible only in our notoriously more backward communities.” Philadelphia mayor Richardson Dilworth agreed: “I know that the Southern advocates of segregation must be sitting back and getting a horse laugh out of what is happening in Levittown.”
The very people of Levittown considered the standoff as nothing less than the fight for the soul of new suburbia. “You look toward the pink house with the white trim and you wonder too about the young people inside who are colored,” wrote one Levittowner in a Philadelphia newspaper. “Do they love their children less than you love yours? Do they thrill less at the sight of the first crocus in the spring? Do they fret less when the crabgrass begins to gnaw into a neatly trimmed lawn? Are they immune to the yearning for a little suburban home with green grass all around?”
On Monday morning, August 19, Bill and Daisy Myers had one last breakfast in their Bloomsdale Gardens home. It was sadly quiet without the boys. Lynda napped soundly. Steam rose from the coffee Daisy poured in Bill’s cup and mingled with the smoke from his cigarette. The six long days of this ordeal had exacted a toll on Bill. He was having trouble sleeping from all the anxiety. Daisy urged him to see a doctor, who told him it was nervous tension. But now it only felt worse.
Today was the day they would move to Levittown once and for all. But to make matters more difficult, the two-week vacat
ion Bill had taken from work was over and he had to return to his job. When Daisy hugged him good-bye, she felt at war with herself—frozen numb on the outside, but with a storm of fear underneath. As the door shut behind her husband, she had never felt more alone.
Before long the doorbell rang. It was a friend from Levittown there to accompany Daisy and Lynda to 43 Deepgreen Lane. Daisy took one last look at the Bloomsdale Gardens house she was leaving behind and hit the road. As they cut through the curvilinear Levittown streets at eleven A.M., remorse consumed her. She feared how much they could take, and what might happen to them in the end. African-Americans were being hung and killed in the South, and who was to say what their fate would be here? Suburbia looked different, but the presence of evil was the same.
As she came up Deepgreen Lane, her heart sank even deeper. What had happened to the once beautiful pink and white-trimmed home with which she had fallen in love? As she looked at the ranch with its boxy windows and tiny garage, other words flashed in her mind: Dull. Unattractive. Insignificant. Unworthy. It was, she resolved, “the house of doubt,” and her family’s fate was on the line.
This feeling was underscored by the four police officers she saw guarding the front of her home as she arrived. With the two white friends who drove her carrying her small suitcases and towels, Daisy took Lynda in her arms and walked steadily to the door. Daisy’s head swam with doubts about their future, and their safety. The voices of the neighbors talking about blowing up her house with dynamite echoed in her head.
As she approached, however, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Friends and strangers had come to clean up the mess. Their lawn was mowed. Their curtains hung. Their broken window, replaced. She was touched by the outpouring of love amid such overwhelming hate. Maybe things would turn around after all. But when she unlocked her door and pushed to open it, the door wouldn’t budge. Daisy’s heart pounded again. She checked the window to see if, somehow, another stone had been hurled through and was now blocking the door from opening.
With another shove, she finally got through—and was stunned to see what was blocking the way: an enormous pile of mail that had been slipped through the door’s mail slot. In just the few days since they’d been away, letters had arrived from all over the world, from Australia to their neighbors right down the street in Levittown. Daisy opened one, hesitantly, and began to read. What hateful words awaited her? she wondered.
“You’re not alone,” it read. She quickly opened another. “We’re with you,” it read. And another. “Stick with it,” this one reassured, “don’t let these prejudiced, ignorant people drive you out of your home.” One by one, Daisy opened each letter to find words of support—not one had a word of hate. The more she read, the more she felt something inside herself shift. For months, she and Bill had reassured themselves—and others—that all they wanted was a good home. They didn’t want a fight. But this wasn’t just about Levittown and her family anymore, this was about the civil rights of all people. This house was more than a home. It was becoming a symbol. And she felt herself changing too. She was part of a community that reached far beyond Levittown. It was the community of every American who sought equal rights. Realizing this, she had never felt so strong.
Less than an hour after she came in, a small crowd began forming across the street again. All the while, the cops just stood by. Soon the men and women in the cars were honking too, making as much noise as they could—clapping, singing, shouting. They were getting used to this. Now instead of just milling about, they would sit on the benches on the lawn across the street and accost the Myerses in comfort. Throughout the afternoon, the ice cream truck would come by, selling desserts to the onlookers. Daisy saw the Confederate flags in the windows of the cars going by. There were plenty of flags to go around; they were selling them at the Levittown Shopping Center next to the barbecue and lawn supplies. As one housewife told a reporter, “It’s just like a fad, everyone’s buying them.”
By the time Bill returned from work, the mob and reporters had gathered again. Bill could barely make it to the front door without being besieged. Once inside, tired from work and the attention, he pulled his wife aside. She had drawn the drapes to keep the chaos out of view. “Oh, Daisy,” he said, “let’s give up. I’m ready to call it quits.”
Daisy took him by the hand. “Come here, I want to show you something.” She brought him into the kitchen where a couple of friends were helping her sort through the enormous pile of support letters. Bill sat down and began to read, holding back tears. There was even a letter of support from baseball legend Jackie Robinson, urging them to remain strong. Though the press had been playing up the violence, he saw, their experience was as much about people coming together. It was not just about evil, but about good, the power of neighbors, and the enormity of what they could accomplish together. As he read, he saw their supporters around them lending hands. One showed up with a bassinet for Lynda. Others came carrying bags of groceries.
Bill and Daisy would remain quiet no more. At six thirty P.M., he and Daisy invited the reporters into their home for an interview. But Daisy turned the questions back on them: “Why don’t you newspapermen write about the good things happening to us? One hundred and fifty Levittown people have written us letters. Others have mowed our lawn, hung our curtains, presented us with a fine oil painting, brought cakes and fruit, and kept us busy receiving well-wishers.”
A photographer directed them into domestic poses, including one shot of Daisy filling Bill’s coffee cup as he looked up at her from the table. The jeers and boos of the mob could be heard coming from outside, making the moment feel even more staged and surreal. Advisers from the various support groups stood by him. One urged Bill and Daisy to quote from the Bible to the reporters, but they declined, feeling this was too stereotypical of a response. Even their supporters were asking them to behave in what they thought were appropriately African-American ways.
Why would the family move to Levittown? one reporter asked. Why not move into Concord Park nearby where other Negroes lived? Bill explained that Concord Park was farther away from his work and would have increased his commute. But beyond that, he said, he had as much right as anyone to be here: “I am a veteran, and I feel that I have a right to live where I choose. I selected my Levittown home because it fits my family’s needs.”
“Would you sell the house for a profit if you could now?” another reporter asked.
“No.”
“Are you afraid of the mob?” another wanted to know.
“I’m sure the police will offer protection as long as I need it,” Bill said. “I’m certain this will all subside, and the people will go home soon. I know the crowds outside are not indicative of the feeling of most people in Levittown. It has been a great strain on us. I hope all this will quiet down, and I’ll be able to live a normal life.”
Did he anticipate such a reaction?
“I knew all the reaction wouldn’t be favorable. I expected some trouble, but I never thought it would be so bad . . . All I want is to be a good neighbor, and I hope others do the same. I don’t believe the demonstrations that have been held present a true picture of the feelings of the people of Levittown. All people are good of heart.” And he added, “I believe that when this is over, all of us will have been enlightened and there will be no resentment.”
Finally, the ultimate question came: “Will you give up?”
Outside the drawn drapes the mob hollered and jeered. Bill looked the reporter in the eye and replied, “I intend to stay in Levittown unless there are unforeseen developments. All I want is a chance to be a good neighbor. I bought this house so that my family could have a nice place to live—and all this shouting won’t prevent it.”
Bill’s courageous words would not allay the mob outside, however. If anything, the crowd grew more restless with each passing hour. As the sun set, more than 250 people gathered in the street, defying the orders of the previous week. “I realize you have a problem and I respect i
t,” implored an officer. “However, we too have a problem and we ask you to respect it. If not, I shall have to direct my men accordingly.” They didn’t listen.
“What protection do we have from this minority group?” one man shouted in reply.
“You have to take that up with the district,” the officer said. “You may not take the law into your own hands.”
By now, the neighbors had to find ways of coping with the riot on Deepgreen Lane. With so many people coming and going, some feared the mob would mistake their homes for the Myerses’ and attack them by mistake. Families were divided, with some husbands urging their wives to take the children and leave town. Others resorted to their own suburban version of defensive tactics. One family across the street, tired of the crowd hollering and littering their lawn with cigarette butts, turned on their sprinklers, sending the mob scattering into the street. They would leave the sprinklers on all night.
But there was no deterring the rebellion. A boy threw a firecracker to taunt the cops. Then near nine P.M. someone hurled rocks from the crowd, striking a police officer and photojournalist. The police shined their flashlights over the mob, but couldn’t find the culprit. “I give you ten minutes to move,” the trooper announced on the loudspeaker. “One of my men and a newsman have been hit, and there must be no further violence.”
As some of the mob began to back off, they hurled insults at the cops. But more than half of them remained. After the designated time passed, the trooper took to his bullhorn once again. “Your time is up,” he announced, then ordered his troops, “Get them out of here!”
“Move! Move! Move!” The police shouted, as they burst into the crowd wielding their clubs. Reporters watched them hitting women in the backsides with their clubs. One man hurled insults as they moved in and was struck by officers too. They pulled him away as his head bled down his tan jacket, and his wife pleaded with them to release him.
Levittown Page 15
