Around a few great issues in American history—the powers of the federal government, slavery, the taming of the corporations, the great depression—parties have been formed and wrecked. To some it now appears that the next such issue in our domestic history is to be that of civil rights, which first showed its power when it divided the Democratic party in 1948, and which in 1952 agitated the Republicans for the first time and almost divided the Democrats again. Unquestionably it will be with us for a long time; and it is in the perspective of the historical significance of civil rights that COMMENTARY presents two articles on the issues involved and the ways they are being met. In this article OSCAR HANDLIN, Harvard University historian who recently won the Pulitzer Prize for his book The Uprooted, describes the impact of the civil rights issue at the two presidential nominating conventions in Chicago. Following this, HERBERT R. NORTHRUP analyzes the chief point of contention dividing advocates and opponents of federal fair employment practices legislation: whether or not the only—or the best—way of solving the problem is for the federal government to be given the power to compel employers to cease discriminatory hiring. 

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Speeding down in taxis from their Loop or near-Loop hotels to the convention Amphitheater, and especially under a prevailing westerly wind, most delegates were aware that they were coming into the huge enclave of the Chicago stockyards. Few, however, could have known that the long South Side streets they were traversing—Wentworth, South Park, Michigan, Halsted—had been the channels of vast displacements of people, the effects of which were even then substantially influencing the outcome of both conventions.

Down these avenues the hundred of thousands of Negroes who had been drawn to Chicago since the First World War had edged steadily southward, pushing out the earlier residents, in a series of movements symptomatic of changes that have everywhere been transforming American life. The politics of this generation will certainly reflect the disturbing influence of these changes. Both conventions, uneasily wrestling with the problem of civil rights, gave ample evidence of that.

In the usage of the last decade, “civil rights” has come to refer to a pattern of state and federal legislation designed to protect the equality of status of all Americans regardless of race, religion, and national origin. Directed against the extra-legal forms of discrimination and segregation, such statutes have aimed to provide the citizen with the support of government when his rights were violated. The issue today is particularly critical in the areas of employment, housing, and education.

There are many precedents for the civil rights laws and few doubts as to their constitutionality. Indeed, the only serious argument now is whether they are properly the function of the states or of the central government. Generally, those opposed to any action take the states’-rights position, those in favor of it turn to the federal government.

With the approach of the presidential election, popular sensitivity to the issue heightens. From year to year the politicians can make a working adjustment to the desire of their constituents, shaping their positions to the temper of local conditions. It is only in the presidential election that these matters are debated nationally and it becomes important for an Alabama Democrat to take account of the views of a New York Negro.

In 1952, when the civil rights question made its appearance in both conventions, the party leaders of both treated it as an intruder from the world outside the Amphitheater. Preoccupied with partisan problems, Democrats and Republicans alike maneuvered so as to evade the necessity—or opportunity—of taking a stand. That is one part of the story—the series of political tactics which disposed of civil rights at the conventions.

There is another part that deals not with the Amphitheater but with the long streets on the outside, not with political tactics but with the hopes and hatreds of millions of men. This is, obviously, distinct from any political juggling. Only, there will come a day when the cool characters who moved about the hall, as insulated from the streets as from the stockyards stench, may discover the connection between their actions and the events just outside.

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The political story is readily told. The Republicans who assembled early in July were mainly preoccupied with the Taft-Eisenhower split over foreign policy. Nevertheless, there was a notable attempt to attract the interest and support of the substantial ethnic groups which, for the past quarter-century, have been adding to the Democratic majorities. The convention managers, apart from their usual desire to spread the honor of delivering the invocations across the whole religious spectrum, seemed to have in view two large elements.

First, as in 1944 and 1948, they hoped to draw support from such groups as the Polish-Americans, the groups that might be swayed by their attachment to the subjugated countries of East Europe. In Chicago, Youngs-town, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, and other cities, these folk form a significant part of the voting population. Were they drawn to the Republicans, or even neutralized, the normal Democratic majorities in those places would shrink, thus decisively affecting the outcome of the election in the crucial states of Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York. It was not just by chance that the Republican convention was treated to the singing of a Polish women’s choir; and its orators gave particular emphasis to the perfidy of Democratic statesmen who had allowed Poland and Czechoslovakia to fall into Russia’s grasp.

There were also the Negroes. Once loyal followers of the GOP, in the 1930’s they slipped largely over to the other party. This shift was due, in part, to the influence of a new leadership within the Negro community; in part, also, to the general identification of the cause of the “minorities” with New Deal liberalism; and in part it was due to the concrete relief that the Roosevelt administration had given to the people who had been the hardest hit of all Americans in the depression. Supplying the Democrats with an essential part of their majorities in New York City and Chicago, the Negroes came into this election year more conscious than ever before of their strength and of their grievances.

The Republicans showed considerable concern about winning back their allegiance. There was a substantial number of Negro delegates; and in the hearings’ before the credentials committee on the contested Mississippi delegation, the charge of Perry Howard, the colored national committeeman from that state, that his opposition was “lily-white” had much to do with securing him the victory. Nevertheless, what the Negroes really wanted they could not secure. They wanted a strong affirmative statement in the platform on civil rights; they got, instead, a vague set of platitudes.

They suffered this disappointment because the Republicans were then eager to eat into Democratic strength in another vital sector. The Dixiecrat revolt in 1948 had opened the wedge of hope that the GOP might at last crack the solid South. Four years of effective collaboration in Congress with the Southern diehards tinged that hope with probability. Certainly there was comfort in the declarations of Governor Byrnes of South Carolina and of Senator Byrd of Virginia that they were by no means committed to support the national Democratic candidates. Almost everywhere in the South the state parties had available machinery for placing a Republican on the ballot under the Democratic label or under that of some third party. The Republicans were not willing to jeopardize that possibility; their civil rights plank was weaker than in 1948, and Eisenhower’s own statements on the subject were less satisfying than Dewey’s four years earlier.

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The Democrats faced a different task; their problem was to hold the strength that was their legacy from the 1930’s. The New Deal had established an effective coalition drawing together not only such traditionally Democratic groups as the Southerners and the Irish, but also the ethnic groups that regarded themselves as underprivileged—the Negroes, and the descendants of the newer immigrants.

Some of these groups offered no difficulty to the 1952 platform-makers. There was a plank on Israel for the Jews, another on the Katyn massacre for the Poles, and a general condemnation of Communist expansion for all those interested in the fate of Eastern and Central Europe. In addition, an excellent statement on immigration policy implicitly repudiated the McCarran-Walter Act. In any case, it was thought, the influence of the politically active unions might hold the loyalties of those groups among which they were particularly strong.

It was another matter with the Negroes. The platform of 1948 had made very definite promises, including one for a federal FEPC, that a Congress with a Democratic majority in both houses had failed to fulfill. Some delegates, among them Senators Humphrey and Moody, felt that those promises should be clearly reaffirmed and that, in addition, there ought to be some statement as to how those promises were to be implemented. On the eve of the convention there was talk of a plank in favor of a cloture rule to prevent filibustering in the Senate and of another calling for abrogation of the seniority provisions by which Southerners generally have acquired key committee positions. There was also talk of a federal anti-lynching law. It was time for a showdown, many thought, and if the Dixiecrats did not like it, they could clarify the situation by walking out.

In the thinking of the liberal wing, moreover, the civil rights question was intertwined with the more general one of party control. The representatives of the Americans for Democratic Action and some of the labor men realized that the same alliance that had killed FEPC had also killed the rest of the liberal program—blocked repeal of the Taft-Hardey Act, for instance, and obstructed enactment of effective price controls. This was the opportunity to compel the Southerners to regularize their party position.

Yet the prospect of a Southern bolt pleased neither the administration nor the party leadership represented in the Democratic National Committee. Their objective was to win the election, not settle differences in ideology. And a victory in November depended upon the ability to hold together the discordant elements in the party. Guided by the master politician in the White House, they drove a course calculated to antagonize neither the Southerners nor the Northern liberals.

When the convention opened, the liberals were allowed to take the offensive. As a part of the temporary rules, Senator Moody introduced a “loyalty resolution” that committed every delegate personally to work, in his own state, to put the regularly nominated presidential candidate on the ballot under the Democratic designation. The tactic was aggressive; it was designed to display liberal strength, to foreshadow the conflict on civil rights, and, by forcing the Southerners to make their stand at the very start, either to deprive them of influence in the convention or close the door against any future bolt.

The Moody resolution was adopted over the bitter opposition of the South. The opponents of the loyalty pledge were weakened by the fact that Texas and Mississippi could not vote since their seats were contested. Furthermore, the Kefauver men from Maryland and Tennessee, casting about for extra strength, were anxious to placate the North. When the sessions of the first day closed, the liberals seemed clearly to be holding the upper hand.

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Thereafter they were in steady retreat. The reversal may have been due to the naive assumption that, with the critical victory won, it was only necessary to placate the vanquished. It may have been due to unwillingness to take the onus of responsibility for defeat if the adamant Southerners bolted, the Democrats of Michigan or Minnesota could not feel as safely entrenched in state office as their fellows in the South. Or, the turn may have been due, as was commonly said, to assurances by the party leaders that if only some slight concessions were made, the Southerners would be forced to sign or get out.

In any case, the day after their great victory Senator Moody and Congressman Roosevelt appeared before the credentials committee and held forth the olive branch in the shape of a face-saving proviso that reduced the original loyalty pledge to innocuousness, as Jonathan Daniels, who had spoken for the Southerners the night before, gleefully pointed out. The proviso was accepted and the Dixiecrat delegations from Mississippi and Texas seated.

South Carolina, Virginia, and Louisiana still were obdurate. They would not sign.

But they were not unseated. Their continued presence on the floor, despite the Moody resolution, cast a shadow across the deliberations of the platform committee, which was even then preparing the party statement of principles. Here, too, the liberals were more than conciliatory. They had not, as in 1948, to contend with a strong Republican platform and with the Wallaceites. With the aid of Senator Sparkman of Alabama they worked out a document vague enough to be accepted without debate and without a roll-call vote.

To minimize the extent of their humiliation, the liberals discovered unexpected virtues in the platform. Even Congressman Dawson, a Chicago Negro, swallowed it as workable. The approach of the election will multiply these alibis. But in two respects, the platform represented a clear liberal retreat. There was not a word about the filibuster or about the seniority system; the general reference to reform of Congressional procedures was offensive to no one. Furthermore, FEPC disappeared; the civil rights plank mentioned the possibility of future federal legislation but gave no indication of the immediate need for it. As a goal, the platform spoke only of “equal” opportunities; and “equal” is a term even Southerners accept so long as they can qualify it with, “separate but . . .” Whatever Northern liberals made of these phrases, to the Southerners they were harmless. Indeed in the peroration to his speech nominating Senator Russell, Senator George used almost identical language to describe the views of the candidate from Georgia.

By this time it was obvious, even to the liberals, that they had been outmaneuvered into a series of surprising defeats. That became clearer still later, when a bit of parliamentary sleight of hand, after all, seated the South Carolina, Virginia, and Louisiana delegations, although they still had not signed the pledge called for by the rules. At that stage, it became the tactic of the liberals to hold off the nomination of any candidate until they secured from him some sort of commitment as to his views.

The question was Stevenson. All along the odds had been on Stevenson. Kefauver had earned the hostility of the President and of the party leadership; Russell was unacceptable to labor and to the Northern liberals just as Harriman was repugnant to the Southerners; and Barkley was in and out and in, but never more than a choice of desperation. Almost by elimination, the governor of Illinois was the likeliest candidate.

Stevenson’s greatest strength lay in the fact that he was not a candidate and had not campaigned for the nomination. The other aspirants had been seared by public exposure; they had orated in primary contests and had answered ticklish questions on radio and television programs. On numberless occasions, they had taken stands on the critical divisive issues; it was clear, for instance, that Harriman was enthusiastically for FEPC, that Kefauver was reluctantly for it, and that Kerr and Russell were opposed to it.

But by virtue of the fact that he was not a candidate, Stevenson had been quit of the obligation of answering any questions, of taking any decisive stand. Whatever his personal reasons for abstaining, it was certainly fortuitous from the point of view of the party leadership seeking a neutral and therefore completely acceptable candidate.

It was precisely for that reason the liberals wished to salvage some measure of commitment from Stevenson. No doubt by now they were thinking of the vice-presidency and perhaps this was the basis of the short-lived alliance with Kefauver. Yet they had already lost the power to dictate, even to influence, terms. In the showdown, they could only go along, not alone with Stevenson, but also with Sparkman, a completely orthodox Southerner on civil rights.

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As the campaign proceeds, those who believe in FEPC or in civil rights legislation in general will find little to choose between in the rival parties. Whatever public statements Eisenhower and Stevenson have thus far made show them both moderate believers that this is primarily an area for state action, or inaction.

It may be that the Republicans will decide the disgruntled Negroes a prize worth working for. Representative Powell, a colored delegate from Manhattan, the one abstainer when the New York delegation switched to Stevenson, has charged the Negroes “were sold down the river.” A week after the convention, Walter White of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People declared that the Democrats had alienated three to five million Negro votes. Such considerations undoubtedly influenced the statement of Senator Lodge at the end of July, that the Republicans would make the effort to gather in the votes by future “clarifications” of Eisenhower’s civil rights position. By the beginning of August, Senator Ives and other liberal Republicans were declaring a victory for them would hasten the enactment of a compulsory civil rights program.

On the other hand, the GOP may still be lusting after the Dixiecrats. Despite the evidence of Democratic solidarity in the Stevenson-Sparkman ticket, the hope will not die that such states as Texas, South Carolina, and Florida may swing to Ike. A stronger civil rights stand would kill that hope. Indeed, the Mississippi states’-righters under former Lieutenant Governor Lumpkin, tendering their support to Eisenhower, demanded as their price the removal of Perry Howard, Negro national committeeman from that state.

Similar pressures, together with Stevenson’s own conservatism, are likely also to immobilize the Democrats. Whatever the outcome, the forces that have blocked civil rights legislation in the past will not have been weakened in the least. With either Sparkman or Nixon presiding over the Senate, in fact, the old Dixiecrat-Republican coalition in Congress will be stronger than ever. The whole story of these political maneuvers proves again what Franklin Roosevelt had realized in 1944, that present party alignment stands in the way of realization of a consistent liberal program.

That may be a good thing. Talking the day the Democratic convention adjourned, an old New Deal Brain Truster, once in the forefront of this fight but now retired—and tired—expressed satisfaction with the outcome. The parties, in his view, are instruments of compromise, their function to avoid head-on ideological conflicts. To have held the Dixiecrats loyal, he thought, was a major achievement; and, if civil rights legislation has to wait in consequence, why the improvement of conditions will come about gradually through the operations of non-legislative forces which will not do violence to existing attitudes.

This viewpoint, however, rests upon two unwarranted assumptions: that, left alone, conditions will of themselves grow better, and that existing attitudes will remain stable, awaiting such improvement. Unfortunately there are grounds for the fear that conditions will deteriorate as well as for the hope that they will improve. What is more, in our society attitudes do not exist, they become; and in a period of rapid change, when men are confused and seek direction, what those attitudes become may depend upon the clarity and vigor with which we express our ideals in law. The failure of the conventions was a failure to supply the guides that could direct the changes of the future into desirable and constructive channels.

To understand the extent of that failure it is necessary to move outside the hall and regard the streets, even now everywhere in process of transformation.

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In its true perspectives, the problem is not North against South; the problem is North and South.

In the South, ancient antagonisms have left their ubiquitous marks. Its history has left the section implacably divided, white against black. Memories preserve that division—of the shamefulness of holding or being held a slave, of the injuries of oppressing or being oppressed, of the injustice of denying or being denied rights. These long recollections cover periods in which relationships grow better, but also in which they grow worse. Now, a complete pattern of segregation is the outward sign of the separateness of the two races and of the inferiority of the black to the white.

There have been recent changes. At first it was the influence of outsiders, Northern Negroes and whites, who interceded to secure the minimal rights of men for the colored people of the South. Then it was indigenous leadership of professional and business folk that began to fight for the privileges due them. Then the two world wars came and brought to many Negroes an awareness of their stake in this society. And through it all, the progressive industrialization of the region unsettled all its residents of whatever complexion, broke the force of old habits, rendered custom anachronistic, and raised the troubling question as to the shape of life in the future.

Indeed, the South has changed. More than ever the Negroes vote, even in Democratic primaries. They have found their way into state universities. Wide ranges of new employment have been opened to them.

They are not, however, grateful for these “concessions.” Discontent feeds on them—as it should. The Negro who finds Jim Crow disappearing on interstate trains sees no reason why it should persist in local transportation. If the black man is admitted to the University of Texas law school, he will wish his child to attend the superior white elementary school. Those who learn to use the ballot will come to aspire to hold office. As the number of lynchings decline and the old fears vanish, the timid “Uncle Toms” lose their influence and new aggressive voices demand as rights what yesterday were not even dreams. It is unthinkable that these people, just awakening to the consciousness of their own dignity as human beings, should long continue to accept the status to which the Dixiecrats would consign them. Nor will they, for the sake of party unity, wait for the matter to work itself out.

The dominant whites in the South, having resisted the concessions of the past, lack the means of accepting the inevitable changes of the future. The old plantation recedes rapidly in a landscape over which the blast furnace looms. But the images of the past block out the possibility of a new vision.

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In the North it was always different. Not that the Negro had it much easier there; but there he did not find the rigid line of demarcation between white and black. There too, however, the situation is without stability.

In the North, the Negroes were one among many ethnic groups. They found themselves in a society that took cognizance of the variety of its members, the differences based on religion and national origin as well as upon color. Almost everywhere, it was true, those differences entailed inequalities of opportunity. Thirty years ago affiliation with a group that was white and Protestant undoubtedly brought with it substantial advantages in the ability to acquire an education, enter numerous professions, choose a home in a desirable neighborhood. And almost everywhere in the North, the Negroes were the least privileged, the lowest in the preference order among all ethnic groups. But they were not alone. They were not completely isolated by their color: they could make common cause with the Jews, Italians, and others, also discriminated against. All these groups had come to think of themselves as “minorities,” underprivileged and engaged in a joint struggle for equality of rights.

For all these groups the 1930’s had been the decisive turning point. By then the immigrants, acquiescent and uncertain of their own status, had given way to their children of the second generation, aggressively eager to enter upon their heritage as Americans and resentful of artificial barriers in their way. Through the Democratic party they had access to political power. From the New Deal they acquired an ideology that justified government intervention on behalf of human rights. Across the sea, in the mounting tide of Hitlerism, they could see the ultimate logic of racism. The war summoned up their energies and also gave them the slogans of freedom. Thereafter their demands could no longer be put off.

The civil rights measures embodied both practical reforms and an abstract protest. The “minorities” struggled for fair employment and educational practices because they wished their children to find places in banks and medical schools and also because they resented the imputation that they must accept an inferior place in American life. On both counts, the objectives of their struggle were phrased in general terms, in terms of the right of all Americans to equality of opportunity. That established an identity of interest among them all, black as well as white. In New. York State, Negroes, Jews, and Italians all participated in the effort to secure enactment of a fair employment practices law. In Massachusetts, where the number of Negroes was relatively small, the brunt of the battle was borne by Jews and Irishmen; but the gains of the law extended to cover colored people as well. By analogy with their own condition, the white “minorities” of the North, though not threatened with lynchings or with deprivation of political rights, could nevertheless find a basis for sharing the fears of the Southern Negroes who were so threatened. The struggle for his own incomplete rights endowed the New York Jew or the Boston Irishman with the beginnings of understanding of what it meant to be as totally devoid of rights as was the Georgia Negro.

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But as in the South, so in the North, too, changes have come. In the Democratic party of the North, the Irish and Negroes and Jews, in many places, have had to make room for a restless element, traditionally affiliated with the party, but new to these areas. The internal migrations of the last thirty years have carried many Southerners across the Mason-Dixon line. The pull of opportunity has drawn the sons of white fanners out of the old eroded hills, away from the uplands where there was no future but only a past. The memories of that past linger in the factories of Detroit and Los Angeles; and many among such migrants see the shape of the great demon of that past in the figure of the black man who passes them in the street. Here is a dark pool of prejudice, stagnant, not yet in motion; only an occasional riot shows its potential for destruction if it should ever overflow. The Southerners in these cities grow in numbers; albeit, half-strangers, they are slow to use their influence.

Other changes come with lesser moves. The immigrants sought equality for their children’s sake; the children, enjoying equality, value it less. Or perhaps, having gained some measure of equality, they wish also to have recognized signs of respectability and status. Thirteen years of prosperity have made some of them thriving businessmen; liberalized educational practices have opened a way for others into the professions; still others hold public office; and others are well-paid technicians. Now their thoughts run to the nice house in the nice neighborhood. Successful, they want the rewards of success and among these is the sense of being accepted by other successful people.

There are standards as to how a doctor, a judge, a foreman should live—what kind of house or car to own, what club to join, what paper to read. Conformity is the cost of being taken in. Yet in a period of rising prices and of shortages it is more difficult to acquire than to inherit these symbols of status. The move to the suburb is achieved with hardship, or is delayed indefinitely.

That is itself irksome. And what if the mass of Negroes crowding the periphery of the respectable neighborhoods should now break in, violate the Drive, or Boulevard, or Parkway, and put to nought all the efforts of having got there! It is tempting to fall back in self-defense upon the devices of exclusion; all too often in America the way to belonging has been to draw a line leaving “the others” out. So, in Cicero, in Detroit, and in other areas of housing tension, the second-generation descendants of immigrants have been prominent in restrictive activity against Negroes.

It is true, for most of these ethnic groups their own past as the restricted and the excluded is not so far behind them that they can put out of mind the evils of those measures or the gains they themselves made in fighting them. But these are among the least secure elements in our society and they may more often in the future seek to forget they were once among the “minorities” and prefer instead a place within the “majority.” It may then seem that the easiest way to escape the ranks of the oppressed is to join those of the oppressors. Whether they do so or not is likely to depend on their calculation of what our society regards as proper.

The likeness among all these people is the reflection of doubts that agitate men unsure of their way and distrustful of each other. Under these circumstances it is foolhardy to rely upon the inevitability of improvement. Can we discount the possibility that while we wait the Negro may be isolated and left to fight alone against overwhelming odds? May not those people who are now confused take our failure to speak out for civil rights legislation as a sign that we do not really believe in civil rights?

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It is time to ask again, what are these civil rights?

We see them framed in laws or enunciated in party platforms. To the practical man of politics they win over, or alienate, so many votes, swing this section or that. To the “realist,” they are phrases of little intrinsic consequence; any high school civics student knows that platforms have no binding force, that promises are always disregarded after the election, and that laws alone cannot alter the “folkways” of a people. To every small-size Machiavelli these are merely slogans, useful or not, according to some calculation of advantage.

We see them also, however, as aspirations intimately involved with the historic meaning of America as an open society, unlimited by status, with opportunity accessible to every man. From this perspective, a civil rights law or party platform is a statement of fundamental principles, affirmed in terms that the people can comprehend.

What is the value of such an affirmation?

Even were that affirmation to have no other effect than that of a gesture, it would still be valuable—just as a Fourth of July oration is valuable, or a prayer. It would be valuable as a public declaration of faith in the ideals our society cherishes. As such it would help give direction to millions of men confused by the uncertainties and doubts of their own changing situations.

I do not believe that white Southerners, hardened by more than a century of bitterness, would thereby at once be persuaded. But neither do I believe that these Americans, habituated as they are to a decent respect for the opinions of mankind, could fail in time to respond to this definition of the American creed. Unsettled, whether they have stayed at home or gone to the North, they surely face experiences that will shake accepted beliefs and crack encrusted customs; and they will surely be affected as they change by what their countrymen think right.

For the hesitant Czech-American in Cicero or the Jew in Los Angeles a statement affirming die right would be more illuminating still. Most of all now these people want the respectability of conforming to what is American. Their hesitation arises from their having mistaken for American the restrictions and exclusions that were once applied against them. They need the affirmation that it was their own earlier struggle for rights that was truly American, and that that struggle will not be wholly won until the victory covers the whole of society.

Most of all, the Negroes need such an affirmation. The danger is real that they will be isolated and come to think themselves isolated, that they will begin to believe the color line exists ineradicably to divide our society into we and they. They need the reassurance that we do not count the battle over because some of us already enjoy the fruits of victory.

The true failure of the conventions was the failure to deliver a clear affirmation on civil rights. Juggling with the favor of one group as against another, and maneuvering toward the tolerable compromise, the politicians equivocated and lost sight of principle. Whatever explanations, emendations, or additions may be offered before November will be tainted by the suspicion they are simply new tricks in the same old game. What the consequences will be, we cannot yet tell. We can only mourn the lost opportunity.

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