And the school was, in many ways, innovative. In order that her students might have a taste of what was being offered to the sons and daughters of upper-class whites, Dr. Brown instituted a program under which Palmer students spent several weeks each year at a New England prep school—usually Northfield and Mount Hermon Academies in Massachusetts. Dr. Brown was one of the first educators to offer “Negro History” as a regular, required course. She was also determined that her students be exposed to culture—to art, literature, and music—and, once a year, at Christmastime, the entire student body was required to perform Handel’s Messiah. No Palmer student, however, ever learned a Negro spiritual. Spirituals, after all, were from the lower classes, the men who lifted the bales, toted the barges, and stooped to pick cotton in the fields.
But for all this the main emphasis at Palmer was on acquiring good breeding, social poise, and polish, and on imitating the ways, deportment, and social values of the white world. In 1941, Charlotte Hawkins Brown wrote and published a slender book of black etiquette called The Correct Thing—To Do, To Say, To Wear, with a subheading describing the contents as “A Ready Reference for The School Administrator, The Busy Teacher, The Office Girl, The Society Matron, The Discriminating Person.” Dedicated to “The Youth of America,” The Correct Thing became required reading at Palmer and is, in many ways, an interesting volume. On the surface, the book seems merely a rewording, if not a copy, of the rules of behavior delineated by Emily Post, and Dr. Brown fully acknowledges her debt to Mrs. Post in a bibliography. But, when examined closely, it is something else again. Under familiar headings such as “Table Service,” “Grooming,” “The Earmarks of a Lady,” “Invitations, Etc.,” “Travel,” “Introductions,” “How to Behave,” one discovers that, though this is intended as an etiquette book for black ladies and gentlemen, never once is any mention made of the single most important factor that sets blacks apart—the color of their skin. In fact, the only reference to blackness or black people is in an oblique, almost shyly tentative sentence in the “Grooming” chapter, in which Dr. Brown selects a WASP, a Scandinavian, and a black to make her point:
The arrangement of one’s hair adds to or detracts from one’s general appearance as it increases or decreases one’s power of personality. Study the contour of your face carefully. What makes Katherine Hepburn or Greta Garbo or Marian Anderson personality plus may make you personality minus.
Black hair has, of course, always been a problem, as has been the black’s alleged fondness for gaudy, ostentatious styles of dress. Dr. Brown’s little book makes several allusions to this but, again, they are so oblique as to pass almost unnoticed. For example, in a section on how to behave “At the Dance,” she advises, “Avoid being bizarre in dress or make-up. Do not be too conspicuous in an unbecoming hair dress. You will attract attention, but those whom you will attract will mark you as an ill-advised, poorly bred, unartistic creature.”
In Emily Post’s Etiquette, Mrs. Post uses quaintly fictionalized names of characters to illustrate her bits of advice—“Mrs. Wellbred” and “Mrs. Goodblood” always do the right thing in Etiquette. In The Correct Thing, however, Dr. Brown tends to use the names of prominent American black families which, perhaps, only a black would recognize. Her sample letters and invitations go out to “Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Washington,” “Mr. and Mrs. W. A. Dobson,” and “Mr. John Thomas Jones,” and Dr. Brown’s informal notes go out to persons with the somewhat flowery, labial, and foreign-sounding names which mothers of Dr. Brown’s generation often gave their daughters—to Dear Lula, Dear Arona, Dear Yvonne, Dear Vesta, Dear Cecie, Norvelle, Raven, Ghretta, Olivia, Mamie Ella, Elise, Nadine, and Mayme.
If there is one underlying theme in The Correct Thing, it is Know Your Place—know your place in the white world, and in the black. The book abounds in references to “your status” and “your social equals,” and “your station in life.” In a section on “Calling,” for instance, Dr. Brown suggests:
Making people in your neighborhood feel comfortable with a call, whether or not they are one’s social equals, is a gracious thing and has its own reward in the satisfaction usually sought by people who embrace Christianity as a source of ethics. This call may be supplemented by an invitation to visit “our Sunday School,” or to hear “our minister” or to come to the lecture at “our Community Center.” …
No one, needless to say, in Dr. Brown’s book is invited to a function at a country club but, instead, to hotels, church social rooms, or college halls. “Don’t go where you’re not wanted,” Dr. Brown reminds. “You, of course, cannot be invited to all of the parties in town, or out of town.” And in a section on business etiquette, Dr. Brown outlines rules of classic black subservience to the white ruling class: “Don’t argue with the employer. Assume at least that he is right. Answer promptly always. Don’t be afraid of being too courteous. Go out of your way to serve your employer. He will remember the little kindnesses not included in the pay envelope in a larger way some day.” Finally, in an extraordinary section titled “Doors,” Dr. Brown says:
If one must knock on the door of a room or office, it must be a gentle tapping. When bidden to enter, take firm hold on the knob, turn it gently, pull the door open at least two-thirds of the way so as not to touch either the door or door jamb, pause for just a second to recognize the person who may be looking your way, and as gently close the door as you opened it. Do not make the mistake of letting a self-closing door push you into the room, for it will embarrass you and prevent you from presenting your best appearance. Your doom may be sealed before you speak a word.
From Palmer Institute, Charlotte Hawkins Brown did her best to get her graduates into the best Eastern colleges—Wellesley, Vassar, Smith for the girls, and Yale or Harvard for the boys. Failing this, she tried to get them entered in the various emerging black colleges and universities in the South, particularly the “fashionable” ones, such as Talladega College in Alabama. A number of Palmer alumni are also graduates of Talladega. At Talladega, a girl was expected to join one of the “good” black sororities—Alpha Kappa Alpha or Delta Sigma Theta. Sigma Gamma Rho and Zeta Phi Beta were considered sororities for lower-class blacks. Fraternities were somewhat less important for the men, but a Palmer graduate was also expected to join a good one like Alpha Phi Alpha.
In 1950, when Charlotte Hawkins Brown was sixty-six, a fire badly damaged Palmer Memorial Institute. The school quietly went out of business not long after that and became a part of Bennett College in Greensboro. There was, after all, at that point no real need for an elite black prep school, since prep schools in New England and elsewhere in the country were by then clamoring to take in black students. Upper-class black boys and girls now go to Hotchkiss, Groton, Middlesex, and St. Marks. Still, the Palmer influence lingers on, and it is still considered “quite the thing” to have gone to Palmer.
Charlotte Hawkins Brown, of course, represents the thoughts and values of upper-class blacks in the thirties and forties, and to people in the 1970s her views and the way she ran her school might seem ridiculously antique. And yet, in a sense, she represented great progress toward a degree of black self-confidence and self-assurance. She had, for example, at least one predecessor in the black etiquette-book field. He was Edward S. Green of Washington, who, in 1920, published The National Capital Code of Etiquette Dedicated to the Colored Race. Mr. Green’s is a much more fawning, self-effacing volume—virtually a textbook on Uncle Tomism—and reflects poignantly the much sadder state of affairs that existed then. In his book, Mr. Green advises, “Strive to please … be a good ‘listener.’ You will be amazed at the reputation you will presently gain for being intelligent, without having to express any opinions yourself.” In his preface, he explains that “This volume has been prepared with the end in mind of properly fitting the young man or woman to occupy their proper place in society; to assist them in acquiring the poise and bearing that is absolutely essential for their future happiness and welfare.” Say little, Mr. Green c
ounsels; strive to be inconspicuous; wear dark colors, black stockings.
In a particularly touching chapter on “Correct Letter Writing,” Mr. Green takes up the case of a fictional Edgar H. Wilkins, who is writing, humbly, to ask his friend, the equally fictional John H. Edwards, for a loan. The loan is for $15.00. Mr. Green offers an example of how Mr. Wilkins might compose his letter (“There are few of my friends to whom I should write for financial assistance, but I feel that you will understand and appreciate …”) and how Mr. Edwards might turn him down (“I have not half the amount you desire now on deposit”). Next, the author considers the possibility that Edwards has given Wilkins his loan, but that Wilkins has failed to repay it. Less than three weeks have gone by, but the tone of the correspondence changes considerably—from “Dear Ed” to “My dear Wilkins”—as Edwards’s reminder letter (“I should appreciate your courtesy in giving this your early attention”) goes out to his friend. Still Wilkins does not respond and, by September 10, Edwards has had enough and writes as follows:
Mr. Edgar H. Wilkins,
1440 Kennard St., City
Dear Sir:
Over a month ago, I wrote you courteously concerning the $15.00 loaned you early in July. You are of course aware that this should have been paid long ago. Your failure to meet your obligation and your continued silence concerning the matter, if persisted in, will eventually destroy the respect and confidence I have always held for you.
My patience is becoming exhausted and I shall expect a satisfactory reply from you by return mail.
Yours very respectfully,
JOHN H. EDWARDS
The reader of The Capital Code of Etiquette is left in suspense as to the final outcome of the Wilkins-Edwards affair.
Reaching her stride nearly a generation after the publication of Mr. Green’s little volume, Charlotte Hawkins Brown was an advocate of much more pride on the part of blacks, even though, along with pride, she advised a certain amount of caution. Today, it might be easy to assume that what Charlotte Hawkins Brown stood for has disappeared entirely. It is true that many blacks would now label Dr. Brown an “Aunt Tom,” or an “Oreo”—referring to the cookie that is black on the outside, but white within. Many blacks would ridicule her attitudes and pronouncements. It is because of people like Charlotte Hawkins Brown that the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People—the backbone of which was formed by many of her former elite-minded students—has been sneeringly labeled (by less affluent blacks) “The National Association for the Advancement of Certain People.” There was no doubt in Charlotte Hawkins Brown’s mind that certain people were better than other people, and more “fit” for themselves to know. What Dr. Brown stood for were the subtle but nonetheless powerful forces that differentiate social classes. She separated the black haves from the white haves, and she also separated the black haves from the black have-nots. Even more important, she separated the old-line black families and their children from a newer generation of blacks who were struggling out of poverty and, in one way or another, managing to achieve a certain degree of affluence. Self-made blacks she considered the gauche nouveau riche. They were simply not in the same class as her crème de la crème. One might suppose that, in this day and age, the distinctions of class that she drew, and the differences she represented, no longer pertain to the black community. Alas, that is not quite the case—not yet.
II
The Bootstrappers
2
“How I Got Over”
An old Negro gospel song is called “how I got over,” and it celebrates “getting over” to Jesus. But the phrase also has a more general, secular meaning in the black world, which, in the modern idiom, could be translated to mean “how I made it”—in a business sense—from next to nothing at all to huge success and riches. A small, wizened, very black lady of eighty-five sits today in a large, carpeted office behind a big desk, high above Chicago’s bustling Michigan Avenue, with an imposing view of the lake beyond, and talks, in a richly Southern accent, of “how I got over.” She owns the modern eleven-story tower of steel and glass in which her office sits, and much more—including an AM radio station, part of a cosmetics business, and the big house in East Drexel Square in which she lives. She is Mrs. Gertrude Johnson Williams—“Miz Gert” to her friends—vice president of the Johnson Publishing Company, which publishes Ebony and several other magazines, of which her son, John H. Johnson, is president and chief executive officer. John Johnson is often called the wealthiest black man in America, but his mother, Mrs. Williams, takes full and unabashed credit for her son’s success. “That’s right, I did it!” she says cheerfully. “I’m the woman behind the man! I put everything I had into him. I had strength, and I had health, and I had determination. I had faith in myself and in the Lord, and now”—she makes a sweeping gesture—“just you look and see how it’s all come back to us. Every day, I look around, at this beautiful building and all we’ve done, and I just sit back and look at how I got over, and I thank the Lord.” Mrs. Williams has never heard of Charlotte Hawkins Brown, nor of the Palmer Memorial Institute, and if she had she would be unimpressed. On the other hand, she likes to remind visitors that not long ago, when she visited Atlanta, she was invited to dinner by the governor of Georgia at the Executive Mansion, and that the leading citizens of the town gave her a surprise birthday party. “The Lord brought me over,” she says. “And now, it’s like an old saying the old folks had in the South—all I have to do now is sit back and spit in the ashes!”
A conducted tour of high school students, exclusively black, who are being shown around the offices of Johnson Publishing, pauses outside Mrs. Williams’s office door, and the tour guide says, in hushed tones, “This is the office of Mrs. Gertrude Johnson Williams, Mr. John Johnson’s mother, who got him started with a loan of five hundred dollars and put her furniture up for collateral.” “That’s right, honey!” Mrs. Williams calls out. “I’m the one, I’m the one that did it! I’m the mother, and with the Lord’s help I got us over.”
Though Mrs. Williams gives a major share of credit to the Lord, a certain amount of mortal business acumen must not be ruled out, nor should a good deal of restless ambition and a certain vision. In the little town of Arkansas City, Arkansas, where Gertrude Johnson Williams grew up (Williams was her second husband; John Johnson’s father was killed in a sawmill accident when John was six years old) there was not much to offer her only son. There was not even a local high school that blacks could attend. And Mr. Williams was not much help. “Oh, he always made money—he always worked,” Gertrude Williams says. “But the trouble was, Williams just couldn’t hold on to any money. He spent the whole of it on drink and gambling.” In order to scrape together tuition money to send young John to high school in a nearby city, his mother went to work, running a field kitchen for a dredging company crew, where the boss was kind enough to let her take home food to feed her family, “tote privileges,” as it was called in the South. At one point, when things looked particularly dark, Gertrude Williams’s mother offered to take the boy. The proposition was placed before young John, who had also fallen into the habit of calling his mother “Miz Gert,” and he said firmly, “I want to stay with Miz Gert.” His grandmother was indignant, and said, “Who is this Miz Gert?” He replied, “Miz Gert is my mother.” It was at this point that Gertrude Williams began to realize that her son might possess spunk and determination to match her own.
Still, when John graduated from the eighth grade in Arkansas City, there was not enough money for the high school tuition the following year. So his mother made him go back to grade school in the fall and take the eighth grade all over again—much to his displeasure.
In 1933, Gertrude Williams was fed up—both with Arkansas City and with Mr. Williams. She was in her early forties and her son was fifteen, and she saw no future for either of them where they were. “I had a friend in Chicago,” Mrs. Williams says, “and she wrote me and said that things were better for colored folks up
there. So I said to Williams, ‘I’m going. You can come too if you like, but if you don’t like I’m going anyway. You can’t stop me, and nobody can stop me.’ He said he was staying, so I said good-bye, and Johnny and me got us on the bus.” In Chicago, despite the Depression, she got a job “working days for a white lady,” worked evenings as a seamstress, and rented a tiny flat. Six months later, Mr. Williams showed up. “I told him he could stay if he wanted, but he wasn’t going to tell me what to do, and I told him, ‘I’m not going to be responsible for you. You can stay on my terms, but if you don’t like my terms, out you go, ’cause it’s my name that’s on this lease!’” He stayed, and on her terms.
Chicago in the twenties and thirties had become a Mecca for upwardly mobile blacks. In those days, Chicago was the railroad capital of America, and railroad lines fanned out from Chicago like filaments of a spider’s web. The railroads, with their demand for conductors, brakemen, and Pullman car porters, had attracted blacks to the city, and there was already a large black community that was stable, prospering, and displaying many of the attributes of a solid middle class. (To be a Pullman car porter in those days was a mark of great status for a black man; to work the Pullman cars, a man had to be trustworthy, a “gentleman,” the work was steady and the pay, with tips, was good; similarly, it was a mark of status to work for the Post Office, and the Post Office in those days relied primarily on the railroads.) In Chicago, before it happened significantly elsewhere, many black families already owned their own homes, had automobiles, and were sending their children to college. The hopes of Chicago’s blacks were high.
Certain People Page 2
