Tuesday, November 29, 2016

The Hoosier Character and the Bicentennial

As the buyer for the L. S. Ayres and Company’s book department since 1932, Ben H. Riker, an author himself and president of the Indianapolis Literary Club, held considerable power in deciding what volumes were available for sale to central Indiana readers. After all, the department, located on the downtown store’s street level, enjoyed a reputation as the leading bookstore in the city. Recognizing his influence, the Knopf publishing house in the spring of 1947 sent Riker a manuscript about Indiana for his comment and possible approval. What the firm received in return, however, must have thrown cold water on any hopes by Knopf that the book, written by John Bartlow Martin, a freelance writer and a former reporter for the Indianapolis Times, might receive a warm welcome in the Hoosier State.

Riker wrote to Alfred A. Knopf, the firm’s founder, that the book’s author had “allowed his own political, social, and economic prejudices to color what ought to be an objective piece of reporting with unbiased interpretation. It is interesting enough, but it does not do what it purports to do—or at least what I was expecting it to do.” In an ominous note for any publisher, Riker indicated that most literate Hoosiers, at least the ones who buy books, would not accept the book “as a true picture of Indiana, and a good many of them, I am afraid, will object to the constant damning by innuendo of the conservative elements in the State, which are pretty large and may even be in the majority.”

Published in the fall of 1947, Martin’s Indiana: An Interpretation failed to win approval from local critics, who seemed put off by the author’s attempt to examine the idea of Indiana and Hoosiers held by the rest of the nation; a conception, a good deal of which, Martin argued, was a myth of “Indiana as a pleasant, rather rural place inhabited by people who are confident, prosperous, neighborly, easygoing, tolerant, shrewd.” Henry Butler, writing in the Times, offered an accurate assessment of the view many people in the state had of the book when he noted that true believers seldom liked to have their “articles of faith described as myth. And though the Indiana myth is no more fantastic than many phases of the greater American myth, of which it is a part, such a description of Hoosierism may strike some as offensive.”

Martin viewed the 1880s and 1890s as the state’s golden age, when Hoosiers were “confident of the future.” After the 1900s, he said, the state had suffered from a “hardening of the arteries” and had lost its way. Between World War I and World War II the magic and wonder of Indiana’s past—James Whitcomb Riley’s poetry and Elwood Haynes’s inventiveness, for example—had disappeared from the scene to be replaced by robed figures from the Ku Klux Klan. “A suspicion had arisen that bigotry, ignorance, and hysteria were as much a part of the Hoosier character as were conservatism and steadfastness and common sense,” Martin wrote. “One of Indiana’s chief exports had long been ideas, but so many of these had turned out to be wrong-headed, wicked, or useless.” Not surprisingly, as he noted in his memoirs, the book “sold poorly.”

In spite of these setbacks, Martin’s book has survived to become a modern Indiana classic. It should hold a place of honor on the bookshelf of any historian of Indiana and the Midwest as a volume that, as Martin noted, introduced to its readers the “down-to-earth hard-to-beat Hoosier, a shrewd salesman at heart” who emerged during the twentieth century. American historian and political insider Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr., a Martin friend and fellow speechwriter for Democratic presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson, considered Indiana: An Interpretation to be “the best book on Indiana,” and Indiana University Press republished the book in 1992 and recently released a bicentennial edition.

Was Martin correct in the assessment of the Hoosier State he outlined in his book? Did he speak accurately when he warned U.S. Senator Robert F. Kennedy during his run for the Indiana Democratic presidential primary in 1968 that Hoosiers were “phlegmatic, skeptical, hard to move, with a ‘show-me’ attitude”? Readers then and now may disagree with Martin’s conclusions, but at least he had the nerve to delve into the question of what it means to be a Hoosier—the character of people in the state—rather than another tired rehash of the word’s etymology.

Occasions such as centennials and bicentennials are certainly opportune times to examine such questions.  James Woodburn, Indiana University professor of history, knew this. In a 1912 talk before the Indianapolis Literary Club, he looked to the approaching centennial celebration, advising that any attempt to pay tribute to the state should be done “without cultivating or encouraging the spirit of boastful jingoism. . . . If Indiana has made meritorious attainments, let them be set forth in due modesty and without pretense. They will speak for themselves.” What, I wonder, will be the “meritorious attainments” to be held up as examples in 2116?
           

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Mr. Martin and Me

On Tuesday, May 10, I attended with my wife, Megan, the 60th annual awards banquet of the Society of Midland Authors, a group founded in 1915 that includes published authors from twelve states: Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Michigan, Kansas, Minnesota, Missouri, Nebraska, North Dakota, South Dakota, Ohio,  and Wisconsin. I was there to accept the top prize in the biography/memoir category for my book John Bartlow Martin: A Voice for the Underdog.

It has been quite a spring for my biography of Martin. In addition to the Midland Authors award, the book has been honored with a silver medal in the biography category of the 2016 Independent Publisher Book Awards, received first place in the nonfiction book category for the Indiana Professional Chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists' annual Best of Indiana Journalism Awards, and is a finalist in the biography category of Foreword Reviews' annual INDIEFAB Book of the Year Awards. Not bad for a book that has yet to have any reviews on its Amazon page. And not too shabby considering that when Martin donated his papers to the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C., he cavalierly said to the staff there that probably nobody would ever write a biography about him. Wrong, Mr. Martin, very wrong.

The event was held at the impressive Cliff Dwellers Club in Chicago on an evening where those in attendance could see the fog sneaking along the shores of Lake Michigan from the club's perch on the 22nd floor. Chicago was an appropriate site for honoring Martin, as it was a city that played such a key role in his life as one of America's great freelance writers. Although he grew up in Indianapolis, Martin realized that "Chicago was where things happened. The horizons in Indiana seemed suffocatingly close, the ceiling in Chicago unlimited. And as fast as I could I went." It was where he got his start, writing stories for true-crime magazines, and even penning an advice to the lovelorn column--quite a trick for someone who's first marriage ended in divorce.

Martin was also a member of the Society of Midland Authors and has his own writing honored by the group. In 1967, his book about his days as U.S. ambassador to the Dominican Republic, Overtaken by Events, won the Patron Saints Award, and in 1978 his Adlai Stevenson and the World won for biography.






Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Elmer Davis: Defender of American Liberties

The nationwide radio audience that tuned into its sets on the evening of March 2, 1942, received quite an earful from CBS commentator Elmer Davis. The Aurora, Indiana-born Davis blasted the government’s ability to inform the public about the war’s progress. “Most of us would feel happier,” he told his listeners, “if we got a little more news about what is going on, provided that news did not tell the enemy something he did not know already.” Pointing out that there were already too many agencies in Washington, D. C., trying to distribute information to the American public, Davis called for the creation of a war news organization directed by one person.

The former journalist turned broadcaster got more than he asked for as a result of his verbal assault on the federal government. Acting on a suggestion made by E. B. White in the New Yorker, President Franklin Roosevelt created the Office of War Information and selected Davis to run its operations. “He [Davis] will have full authority to eliminate all overlapping and duplication and to discontinue in any department any informational activity which is not necessary or useful to the war effort,” read a White House statement about the appointment. The fifty-two-year-old Davis had stepped from a $1,000 a week radio job into a $10,000 a year government position. “As soon as they give me a chair to sit on in Washington,” he told reporters, “I’ll go to work.”

The take-charge attitude Davis displayed during his OWI experience in World War II served the Hoosier writer and broadcaster well a few years later when he confronted another foe—Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy. Amidst the hysteria generated by the senator’s allegations of Communists infiltrating the highest levels of government--wild charges that often brought ruin to innocent people—Davis’s “slow, even, Middle-Western voice brought reassurance into millions of American homes,” wrote his biographer, Roger Burlingame. Davis offered people hope through what he called his first and great commandment: “Don’t let them scare you.”
           
Davis was born in the southeastern Indiana town of Aurora, which perches on the banks of the Ohio River, on 13 January 1890. Davis’s father, Elam H. Davis, worked as a cashier for the First National Bank of Aurora, while his mother, Louise (Severin), was the principal at the local high school. Recalling his boyhood days in Aurora at a commencement speech for the town’s 1951 high school graduating class, Davis remembered one thing that distinguished the community from other towns its size “was the universal interest in music and the almost universal capacity for performing it.” Universal, that is, except for Davis. “I was one of the very few people around town who couldn’t sing,” he told the young graduates. “And to be unable to sing, in Aurora of those days, was about as much of a deformity as if you’d had both legs cut off by a freight train.”

Described by a childhood friend as an “avid reader,” Davis began his long career with newspapers the summer after his freshman year in high school by obtaining a job as a “printer’s devil” for the Aurora Bulletin. By the time Davis was ready to enter Franklin College at age sixteen, however, he had received his first payment for a newspaper story, $25 from the Indianapolis Star. He continued his association with the Star through his school years, serving as that newspaper’s Franklin College correspondent.

Returning to the United States in 1913 following a stint as a Rhodes Scholar, Davis found few job prospects back home in Aurora and took an editorial position with Adventure magazine in New York at a salary of $10 per week. A year later, the New York Times hired Davis as a reporter, a job he held for the next decade. During his Times career Davis covered a hodgepodge of stories, everything from the 1923 champion boxing match in Shelby, Montana, between Jack Dempsey and Tom Gibbons to political conventions (for which he created the popular Hoosier political commentator Godfrey G. Gloom from Amity, Indiana) and religious rallies.

In December 1923, Davis left his secure job at the “Great Gray Lady” for the insecure career of a freelance writer. Liberated from the daily grind of churning out copy for a newspaper, Davis rejoiced at his freedom, writing a friend: “Can you conceive the relief, after ten years of writing for tomorrow’s paper, of cutting loose for once and trying to see if you can do something good?” Davis busied himself with writing fiction and nonfiction for such publications as the Saturday Review of Literature, the New Republic, and Harper’s. He also continued to churn out popular fictional books, a habit he began in 1913 with the release of The Princess Cecilia.
           
Enjoying his success as a writer, Davis purchased a summer home in Mystic, Connecticut. Busy writing a serialized mystery novel for The Saturday Evening Post in Mystic in August 1939, Davis received a telephone call from Paul White, news department director for the Columbia Broadcasting System. White asked Davis to come to New York to fill in as a news analyst for popular broadcaster H. V. Kaltenborn, who was on assignment covering the unsettled situation in Europe. “I had done some broadcasting at odd times over the past dozen years, had sometimes even pinch-hit for Kaltenborn during his absences; but to fill in for him in such a crisis as this was a little like trying to play center-field in place of Joe di Maggio,” Davis said. Leaving his mystery serial unfinished, Davis spent the next few weeks reporting on the European crisis, working up to eighteen hours a day, but actually broadcasting for no more than one hour on any single day.

Over the next few years, Davis’s reports on the war news became a daily listening habit to millions of radio listeners. His ability to reach out and grab hold of the American public’s attention was clearly evident in Davis’s March 1942 broadcast urging the federal government to create one organization to be responsible for coordinating war news. E. B. White, writing in The New Yorker’s “Talk of the Town” column, went Davis one better by proclaiming: “Of the twelve steps we would like to see taken in this war without further delay, the first is the unification of the information bureaus and the appointment of Elmer Davis to head them up. Mr. Davis, on the air the other night, presented the best case for unification and the strongest indictment of the present mess. In our opinion not only is he right but he is the man to sit on the desk.”

Although he received White’s wholehearted support, Davis thought others might be more suitable for such a position. President Roosevelt, however, selected the man he described as the broadcaster “with the funny voice. Elmer—Elmer something.” On June 13, 1942, the government announced the creation of the Office of War Information with Davis as its director. The new agency consolidated the functions of the Office of Facts and Figures, the Office of Government Reports, the division of information in the Office for Emergency Management, and the foreign information service of the Office of Co-Ordinator of Information.

Davis presided over what one observer called “the most powerful information agency this country has ever known,” with a budget topping out at approximately $25 million. The agency’s approximately 30,000 employees included newspaper editors, editorial writers, advertising experts, publicists, playwrights, poets, film directors, lawyers, anthropologists, sociologists, psychologists and diplomats. Despite his lack of administrative skills, Davis managed to wield this disparate group into an effective information agency. The director spelled out his philosophy for all to see in a sign posted in the OWI’s offices in the Library of Congress, Social Security Building, and U.S. Information Building: “This is a people’s war, and the people are entitled to know as much as possible about it.”

In his three and a half years in office, Davis attempted to balance the need for military secrecy with the public’s right to know. He also had to weather complaints from politicians that he was working to promote not the war, but Roosevelt and the New Deal; infighting among various OWI employees; and wild accusations that he was a Communist stooge. His continued efforts to acquaint the public with the war’s progress came to an end in September 1945, when, with World War II’s end, the OWI ceased to exist. In announcing the agency’s liquidation, President Harry Truman complimented Davis and his staff for their “outstanding contribution to victory.” Freed from his OWI responsibilities, Davis returned to radio, offering news commentary for the American Broadcasting Company. 

Davis may have left behind his wartime battles, but he was soon engaged in another struggle aimed at informing the American public—a battle against the Communist “witchhunt” begun by Republican Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy. At a 9 February 1950 speech in Wheeling, West Virginia, McCarthy proclaimed that he held in his hand a list consisting of 205 known Communists in the State Department. Although a special Senate committee headed by Maryland Senator Millard Tydings found little or no evidence to back McCarthy’s charges, the Korean War’s outbreak in June 1950 helped to heighten American fears about the possibility of Communist-sponsored subversion in this country.

Throughout the McCarthy years, Davis, in his radio broadcasts and books like the 1954 best-seller But We Were Born Free, appealed to the better nature of the American citizen, becoming one of the strongest spokesman for reason during those troubled times. Davis’s strong stance against the senator prompted letters of both praise and censure.
          
The battles Davis fought on behalf of freedom and fair play, although bloodless, did have an impact on his health. He suffered a stroke in March 1958 and became a patient at George Washington University Hospital in Washington, D. C. Davis died at the age of sixty-eight on May 18, 1958.

The final paragraph of his book, But We Were Born Free, offers a fitting epitaph on Davis’s life and career. In it, he offers for his readers’ consideration the tale of the Philistines at the Battle of Ebenezer, who feared they were faced with a hopeless cause. “But then, realizing that nobody else was going to deliver them,” Davis wrote, “they said to one another, ‘Be strong and quite yourselves like men; and fight.’ And they did fight, and delivered themselves. So may we; but only if we quit ourselves like men. This republic was not established by cowards; and cowards will not preserve it.”
             
    
           
           




Tuesday, January 5, 2016

The Lady in the Hat: Mattie Coney and Citizens Forum

Since leaving office at the end of his second term, former president Dwight D. Eisenhower had been living in retirement at a farm in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Although busy in 1967 with the publication of his final book, At Ease: Stories I Tell to Friends, Eisenhower took the time to write a personal letter to a former Indianapolis schoolteacher, Mattie Coney. From a number of sources, Eisenhower wrote Coney, he had learned of an effort in the Hoosier capitol to clean and better the community’s neighborhoods. “Not only have I been impressed by our common sense philosophy,” he wrote, “but even more by the patriotism, energy, and organizing ability that are so evident in the record you have made.”

Eisenhower was one of many, among them Lady Bird Johnson and Gerald Ford, to lavish accolades on the efforts of Coney and the grassroots organization she helped create: Citizens Forum. Working with her husband, Elmo, and numerous Indianapolis residents and civic leaders, Coney attempted through her “Better Neighbor” program to encourage good citizenship, individual responsibility, and self improvement in inner-city neighborhoods.

From its inception in 1964 to its disbanding twenty years later, Citizens Forum, a racially integrated institution, organized thousands of block clubs throughout the city that embarked on such projects as the “De-RAT-ification” campaign to rid the city of rodents; the “Dogwood Tree” program to plant trees; the “Visit Your Neighbor Month”; a city-wide beautification program to remove trash from streets and yards; and a “Helping Hand” program, inaugurated in 1973 to provide children with safe havens on their way to and from school. Impressed with the group’s results, other cities—Chicago, Detroit, Milwaukee, New Orleans, New York, and Washington, D.C.—began similar efforts.

The driving force behind the successful neighborhood improvement association was Coney, known throughout central Indiana and the country for her stylish headgear, blunt opinions, and no-nonsense philosophies known as “Mattieisms.” Her outspokenness on the need for African Americans to “quit feeling sorry of ourselves and take advantage of our opportunities” and her belief that “slums are made by people, not by plaster or bricks,” often put her at odds with both white and black leaders struggling to achieve equal rights for African-American citizens during the 1960s, who viewed her as a willing tool of the establishment seeking to place the blame for poverty and racism on blacks themselves instead of on unfair laws.

Coney, who died in 1988, utilized a different approach than those used by such nationally prominent civil rights proponents as the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. or more radical groups such as the Black Panthers. “I never believed in the need for marching, cussing, fussing and breaking up stuff,” said Coney. She acknowledged that not everyone agreed with her methods. “Many Negroes don’t like what I’m saying,” she said, noting that some went as far as to call her Aunt Jemima. “They think I’m blaming them. I’m not. I’m talking about all people, and if they happen to live in filth, then they ought to clean it up. I just tell the truth.” To Coney, a registered Republican, those who criticized her, white and black alike, did so because they liked to “talk about what’s wrong, not what’s right and how to make it better.”

Born in Gallatin, Tennessee, on May 30, 1909, Coney was an only child. When she was six weeks old, her family moved to Indianapolis, where her mother and father eventually divorced. Her mother, Delia, a cook, later married Oscar Weathers. The family lived in a two-story house west of Indiana Avenue. At an early age, Coney learned from her family the importance of hard work and self-reliance. “Our family always believed in the free enterprise system,” she said, noting that one uncle owned a milk business, two operated stands in the city market, one ran a successful barbershop, and another had the largest hot tamale business in town.

After graduating from Shortridge High School in 1927, Coney put herself through a two-year teachers training course at Butler University by delivering newspapers and working at the L.S. Ayres Tea Room. Embarking on a teaching career that would span more than thirty years, her first assignment was a class of fifty-five supposed incorrigible children that she soon turned into a group of model students with her own brand of education. Throughout her days with the Indianapolis public schools, she stressed solutions to the everyday practical problems facing her students. Students thrived in the atmosphere Coney created because “she expected you to live up to your potential,” said Pat Browne, a former pupil who went on to become a teacher herself. “When you got out of her class, you knew you were one of the best. You stood a little taller."

Coney’s quest for perfection continued to drive her when she became involved with the creation of Citizens Forum. The inner-city neighborhood group evolved from a July 9, 1964, meeting held to discuss an open-housing ordinance being considered by the Indianapolis City Council. The ordinance prohibited real-estate agents from refusing to show homes or negotiate sales or rentals based on a person’s race, creed, color, or national origin.

According to Coney, two city councilmen stopped by her home one evening to lament that realtors were using the alleged poor conditions of black neighborhoods as a wedge against the ordinance. Coney helped organize a citywide meeting of prominent black and white citizens, held at the Fall Creek YMCA. “It was my hope,” she said of the meeting, “that we could talk among ourselves and work some of these problems out. It seemed to me that if I were a good citizen there shouldn’t be any reason because of my color, which I didn’t have anything to do with, that I couldn’t move to a neighborhood that was more comfortable.”

Working with her husband, Coney started efforts to improve area neighborhoods by organizing block clubs. By first educating block-club workers on how to become good citizens, Coney reasoned, they could, in turn, pass on those lessons through meetings at their homes. Members also kept an eye out on their areas, reporting health hazards and possible code violations to the proper city department, as well as welcoming new residents to the neighborhood.

In 1966 the 500 block clubs organized under the Citizens Forum banner gathered approximately 40,000 tons of trash from Indianapolis homes, streets, and yards. The next year, the amount of refuse grew to 180,000 tons removed during a twenty-eight-day period. What made the program successful, according to Coney, who retired from teaching to devote herself full-time as Citizens Forum executive secretary, was its simplicity—“anybody can clean up their homes and be good citizens,” she said.

A flood of improvement projects poured from the Citizens Forums’ office. A “Go One Step Farther” campaign urged residents to sweep a foot beyond the curb to help prevent drainage problems; a “De-RAT-ificiation” effort worked to eliminate places where rats bred, nested, and ate; and a “Bloom-In” program encouraged those who had surplus seeds and flowers to donate them for redistribution. The group also served as a liaison between local residents and various agencies of city government. These efforts garnered for the organization, and for Coney, numerous state and national honors, including a Recognition Award from the Keep America Beautiful program. Other cities copied the group’s programs, something Coney called “the sincerest form of flattery.”

After years of dedicated service to the Citizens Forum cause, the Coneys, faced with ill health, both retired from the organization in the early 1980s. Without the Coneys’ leadership, and plagued by financial problems, the group disbanded in 1984. Ironically, the organization’s success may have helped speed its demise. As city government began to take on some aspects of Citizens Forum programs—heavy trash pickup and neighborhood beautification, for example—grants and contributions began to wane.

Mattie Coney’s legacy of self-help and improvement, however, remains intact. As she said when she was asked about her work when she and her husband were presented keys to the city in 1983, her greatest accomplishment came in “getting people to realize you have to do something for yourself. The Declaration of Independence promises the pursuit of happiness. You got to work for it.”