The Charlotte News

Saturday, May 16, 1942

FOUR EDITORIALS

Site Ed. Note: The front page tells of the commutation by the President of Earl Browder’s sentence for passport fraud, his release having been sought by many in the country including U.N.C. president Frank Graham, as indicated in The News editorial "Reverse Twist", of May 2. The ultimate rationale for it offered by the President was to allay suspicions in the country of selective prosecution of Browder for his having been the leader of the Communist Party within the United States. (A little known fact, which we just happen to know, is that, in Russian, his code-name was "Redworb Lrea". But don’t tell anyone; it’s still highly classified.)

The editorial page provides in "Front of Fronts", an ironic title perhaps, the good reason for this showing of good will toward those of Russian sympathies at this particular juncture of history. Only the fate of the entire world hung in the balance on the shoulders of the Red, Red Rooskies whom, prior to the previous June, no one much liked, until they became the avowed enemy of our enemy and hence, for the expedient time anyway, our good friend.

The Russians were now, as the front page pointed out two days earlier, receiving British and American planes and tanks as never before, enabling them to approach parity on the field of battle with Hitler’s worn machinery, made so after the unexpectedly long and grueling late fall and winter campaign.

The fields of battle were still muddy even in the Ukraine, as Paul Mallon pointed out the day before, fields where most of the fighting was taking place, as he pointed out again in the same column. And thus the Nazis were still to some degree bogged down in the mire, even in the Ukraine, not capable therefore of enforcing a blitzkrieg as when the Russian invasion began, now nearly a year earlier. But, the confidence instilled in the Russians by the great winter counter-offensive was about to have its setback nevertheless, as we indicated, with the turning of the tide this very day on the Russian attempt to re-capture Kharkov, now in its fifth day.

And another letter to the editor arrives regarding the May 11 letter of Mr. Derr responding to the May 7 editorial on the Union County, S.C. Democrats barring African-Americans from membership to frustrate their voting at all. This letter, written by another African-American, purports to speak for most African-Americans in condemning Mr. Derr’s "violent" letter.

We do not recall Mr. Derr writing anything the least bit violent, and do not believe anyone reading it with proper eyes or corrected vision could read that into his words, at least no more so than the words of the gentleman, Mr. Henry, whom he paraphrased. And most patriots would not dare term Mr. Henry a violent militant, unless, that is, you were partial to King George in the Revolution.

What Mr. Derr said was, simply, "to hell with the U.S.A." if the U.S.A. was going to try to fight a war with his body while denying his inherent rights under the Constitution to do the simple and most fundamental task available to anyone living under a democratic form of government, vote. And poor Mr. Derr not only couldn’t vote in Union County, S.C., he could not even express himself in Mecklenburg County, N.C. without the FBI and the local police chief of Monroe and other racists and Uncle Toms, and who knows who else, publicly chilling or excoriating his freedom of expression as well. We empathize with Mr. Derr.

What he said was right, and right, before his time. And while we respect Mr. Morgan’s equivalent right to speak for his race, as he chose to believe it, the fact of the matter is that his letter represented an earlier time, an earlier generation, an earlier mindset, one which was by 1942 fast becoming passé, as would become evident within less than a decade, as the civil rights movement in the country slowly began to burgeon and take its public shape, first through the state and Federal courts, then in the streets, finally making its way into the halls of Congress, that only after much blood had been shed cruelly by those wedded to a view of the world based on race.

All the while, the conscience thus sought to be instilled was being readily formed in a new generation born after the war, at least those sensitive enough to read and think, those being readily receptive to the new qualification for admission to civil rights in America, the qualification which had been set down at ratification and largely ignored for over 150 years: being a human being born in the country or naturalized as a citizen, regardless of any other attribute or perceived detriment.

But, for him to suggest that Mr. Derr was using violence by writing a letter to the editor of the Charlotte News demonstrates the degree of brainwashing which had occurred over several generations in this country to instill obeisance in selected leaders within the black community, in order, as Mr. Derr himself had put it, "to keep the nigger in his place." It had worked since the end of the Civil War; it had worked prior to the Civil War.

That is precisely what Mr. Morgan was doing, what his role in the community was, whether he was fully cognizant of it or not, just as surely as was the case on the plantation with the black overseer a hundred years earlier, making the work of the white overseer and master that much easier. It is not, and it is still not, a story colored simply in black and white. Indeed, many white people, many Southerners, were and are far more liberal with respect to integration than some black people. (And if you think that is some sort of vaguely racist comment, you are a cracker. Go on then, cracker, and join Lester Maddox at the fried chicken joint in Atlanta and get out your axe handles, ‘cause you is every bit the cracker he was. The only difference is, you don’t knows it yet, Cracker.)

But again, in so saying that, we are not putting down Mr. Morgan per se, or anyone from his generation, for his world view was occasioned by many perceptions and social limitations and barriers different from our own. And, should he have lived so long, perhaps his view might have changed over time, by the mid-fifties. We should hope that it did.

For ourselves, it was a vast awakening right in that very time. Thus, while we may understand Mr. Morgan's point of view, or, for that matter, even that of Lester Maddox, their causes, their viewpoints shaped by experience and perceptions in a different time, we cannot ever feel anything but pity for the former and contempt for the latter. It is our right to feel that way. It is the way of generational progress.

In that enormous silence, birds were waking. It was a little after four o'clock in the morning. Wind pressed the boughs. It was still dark. But above them the thick clouds that had covered the earth for days with a dreary gray blanket had been torn open. Eugene looked up through the deep ragged vault of the sky and saw the proud and splendid stars, bright and unwinking. The withered leaves were shaking.

A cock crew his shrill morning cry of life beginning and awaking. The cock that crew at midnight (thought Eugene) had an elfin ghostly cry. His crow was drugged with sleep and death: it was like a far horn sounding under sea; and it was a warning to all the men who are about to die, and to the ghosts that must go home.

But the cock that crows at morning (he thought), has a voice as shrill as any fife. It says, we are done with sleep. We are done with death. O waken, waken into life, says his voice as shrill as any fife. In that enormous silence, birds were waking.

He heard the cock's bright minstrelsy again, and by the river in the dark, the great thunder of flanged wheels, and the long retreating wail of the whistle. And slowly, up the chill deserted street, he heard the heavy ringing clangor of shod hoofs. In that enormous silence, life was waking.

Joy awoke in him, and exultation. They had escaped from the prison of death; they were joined to the bright engine of life again. Life, ruddered life, that would not fail, began its myriad embarkations.

A paper-boy came briskly, with the stiff hobbled limp that Eugene knew so well, down the centre of the street, hurling a blocked paper accurately upon the porch of the Brunswick. As he came opposite Dixieland, he moved in to the curb, tossing his fresh paper with a careful plop. He knew there was sickness in the house.

The withered leaves were shaking. Eugene jumped to the sidewalk from the sodded yard. He stopped the carrier.

"What's your name, boy?" he said.

"Tyson Smathers," said the boy, turning upon him a steady Scotch-Irish face that was full of life and business.

"My name is 'Gene Gant. Did you ever hear of me?"

"Yes," said Tyson Smathers, "I've heard of you. You had number 7."

"That was a long time ago," said Eugene, pompously, grinning. "I was just a boy."

In that enormous silence, birds were waking.

He thrust his hand into a pocket and found a dollar-bill.

"Here," he said. "I carried the damn things once. Next to my brother Ben, I was the best boy they ever had. Merry Christmas, Tyson."

"It ain't Christmas yet," said Tyson Smathers.

"You're right, Tyson," said Eugene, "but it will be."

Tyson Smathers took the money, with a puzzled, freckled grin. Then he went on down the street, throwing papers.

The maples were thin and sere. Their rotting leaves covered the ground. But the trees were not leafless yet. The leaves were quaking. Some birds began to chatter in the trees. Wind pressed the boughs, the withered leaves were shaking. It was October.

As Luke and Eugene turned up the street toward town, a woman came out of the big brick house across the street, and over the yard toward them. When she got near, they saw she was Mrs. Pert. It was October, but some birds were waking.

"Luke," she said fuzzily. "Luke? Is it Old Luke?"

"Yes," said Luke.

"And 'Gene? Is it old 'Gene?" She laughed gently, patting his hand, peering comically at him with her bleared oaken eyes, and swaying back and forth gravely, with alcoholic dignity. The leaves, the withered leaves, were shaking, quaking. It was October, and the leaves were shaking.

"They ran old Fatty away, 'Gene," she said. "They won't let her come in the house any more. They ran her away because she liked Old Ben. Ben. Old Ben." She swayed gently, vaguely collecting her thought. "Old Ben. How's Old Ben, 'Gene?" she coaxed. "Fatty wants to know."

"I'm m-m-m-mighty sorry, Mrs. P-P-P-Pert . . ." Luke began.

Wind pressed the boughs, the withered leaves were quaking.

"Ben's dead," said Eugene.

She stared at him for a moment, swaying on her feet.

"Fatty liked Ben," she said gently, in a moment. "Fatty and Old Ben were friends."

She turned and started unsteadily across the street, holding one hand out gravely, for balance.

In that enormous silence, birds were waking. It was October, but some birds were waking.

By the way, here’s a video we ran across, some fellow out driving in his old beat-up electric woody with his dog, on the great highway.