The Peary-Stafford family representative also sent letters and other materials to one of the Eskimo Pearys who spoke some English, suggesting that if Kali and his family came to America with me, they would be abused and midhandled, particularly by the news media. Even more disruptive, the family representative and his collaborator brought up the issue of race in an apparent effort to create a rift between the Eskimo Hensons and Pearys. According to the Eskimos, they suggested that my efforts in this project would only exalt Henson and discredit Peary, and that although they were part Eskimo, they were also part white. It would therefore be better if they waited and came to the United States at some future date. Kali later informed me that the explorer had tried to get him to wait and visit America with him.
Naturally, I became deeply concerned about the Pearys’ interference with the plans that I had made with Anaukaq and Kali. The intervention of the Pearys and their associate had ended up pitting members of the Amer-Eskimo Peary family against one another, and I could see the potential for further confusion and discord if such meddling persisted. I felt I had no alternative but to call the family spokesman to investigate the allegations.
When the Peary-Stafford representative confirmed that he had been in touch with Kali and his family, I asked him why. He responded by saying that he and his family remained convinced that if Kali and his children came here, they would bring negative publicity on themselves as well as on the American Pearys, and he thought it was within his right to say this to them.
“Well, if you cared as much about this family as you’re suggesting now, why haven’t you been in touch with them before, just to introduce yourself or acknowledge them as family?” I asked. He seemed to squirm about for an answer, suggesting that the American side of the family might have done so one day in the future but that my efforts had really added impetus to their desire to talk to the Arctic Pearys.
“Well, just a few weeks ago you indicated to me that the Peary family members were not certain that Kali was in fact Robert E. Peary’s son, and now you’re contacting them and asking them not to come to America,” I said. He struggled uncomfortably for a reply.
It became quite clear to me that this man was in fact attempting to sabotage Kali and Anaukaq’s plans to visit America. It took all the strength I could muster to control myself. I assured him that I was responding to Anaukaq’s and Kali’s wishes in bringing them to America and that they were both elderly men who simply wanted this opportunity now because they did not know what the future held for them.
He suggested that it would be fine for Anaukaq and his family to come to the United States but that he still felt the need to let the Arctic Pearys know that they were probably being exploited. “If you felt there was exploitation,” I responded, “then why were you not concerned about the Amer-Eskimo Hensons being exploited as well? Why didn’t you contact the Eskimo Hensons as well to indicate that they too might be exploited?” Again he was unable to come up with an adequate reply.
He then explained his collaborator’s role by saying that he had been working with him on a new project about Robert Peary’s polar explorations and that the family was providing him with certain information from the Admiral’s private papers. He admitted that he had asked this man to intervene on behalf of the Peary family in America with “the Eskimos who say they are Pearys.”
Despite my anger, there was little I could do except urge him to stop interfering with our plans. I assured him that every activity I had planned for Anaukaq, Kali, and their families would be carried out with great dignity and respect for them, their privacy, and their wellbeing. I ended the conversation.
At this point so many issues and problems confronted me that I simply did not know which way to turn. I still hadn’t been able to line up transportation to the United States for Anaukaq, Kali, and their families. I was uncertain just how successful the Peary-Staffords and their emissary had been in undermining my efforts. And, further complicating matters, I was receiving reports that the publicity surrounding the trip had attracted the attention of a number of influential people in Greenland who felt that they should be included in our plans.
There was, moreover, another matter that bothered me—and had bothered me for some time. Robert Peary had been buried with full military honors and had a beautiful monument in Arlington National Cemetery, while Matthew Henson was buried in a simple grave in Woodlawn Cemetery. In many ways their graves symbolized the disparate treatment they had received in life from their fellow Americans. Peary’s grave site boasted a massive monument from the National Geographic Society. Henson had received nothing from the society, which had ignored him in death as in life. Peary’s grave site was situated on a hill carefully selected for its commanding position in Arlington National Cemetery. Henson’s small gray headstone was simply placed in a common row of other equally simple grave sites. If Henson’s service to his country had been given proper consideration at the time of his death, he too would have been buried in our most prestigious national cemetery. This was a tragic wrong that needed to be righted. I felt that moving Henson’s remains to Arlington National Cemetery would in some measure make up for the lack of recognition he had received from his country during his life.
I shared my idea of the reinterment with several of the American Hensons, and they fully agreed. Next, I contacted Washington officials who could help me to arrange to have Matthew Henson’s remains removed from the Woodlawn Cemetery and reintered at Arlington. I learned that only two people can assign individuals to burial sites in Arlington National Cemetery. One is the secretary of the army, who makes decisions about former military personnel whose families wish to have them buried in Arlington. The other person is the President of the United States.
At the very mention of this idea, some of my colleagues and friends laughed in disbelief. “You’ll probably have to wait for another administration. This administration is not known for doing this kind of thing,” one friend told me. Others suggested that such an effort would be virtually impossible under the present army hierarchy and that it was futile for me to try. But, as usual, such comments only hardened my resolve.
One evening in late 1986 I sat down and composed a letter to President Reagan requesting permission to reinter Matthew Henson among other American heroes in Arlington National Cemetery.
Later in the spring, I received word that Anaukaq had left the infirmary in Qaanaaq of his own volition, telling the nurses and translator that he was fine and ready to travel to the United States. “Please don’t forget that I want you to travel to Mahri-Pahluk’s homeland with me and my family to serve as our translator, when Allen comes,” he reminded the translator.
What Anaukaq did not know was that I still had not found a way of transporting the families. I had begun to explore the incredibly expensive option of using a Canadian charter airline, which hops from island to island across northern Canada, when I again heard from the Department of Defense. This time the news was good. The U.S. Air Force had granted my request to transport Anaukaq, Kali, and their families from Dundas Air Force Base in Thule to McGuire Air Force Base, provided that each passenger paid a fee covering air transport and lodging on the base. The cost of transporting all prospective passengers would run to at least ten thousand dollars. At this point, I was so thrilled at having surmounted a major obstacle that I did not worry about the money. I simply heaved a great sigh of relief and then ran through University Hall telling my students the good news.
Several of my students, fellow faculty, and friends at Harvard had been very helpful and supportive throughout my involvement with this project. Even the president of the university had met with me to express his special interest in my efforts and to offer his encouragement. But the students were a tremendous source of inspiration from the moment they heard the story. They saw this effort as a kind of victory for Anaukaq and Kali—a victory over prejudice and abandonment and the fulfillment of a lifelong wish. And they wanted to be actively involved in making that dream
come true. I drew much of my inner strength from the enthusiasm of these young people.
We decided to form the “North Pole Family Reunion Committee,” a group of Harvard students, faculty, and staff, along with members of the American Henson and, we still hoped, Peary families. As we began to organize the visit, we soon realized that the costs would be much greater than originally anticipated, and the complications manifold. In addition to the cost of air transportation from Thule, we would have to pay for air- and ground-travel in the United States as well as for food, lodging, guides, translators, and security in every city. We also needed medical and health insurance along with traveling medical personnel, in case of an emergency. We estimated the total costs to be in the tens of thousands of dollars. Like typical academics, we turned to granting agencies.
I approached several such agencies and known philanthropists about possible support for the project. While they all found the idea interesting, each had other funding priorities at the time. No support materialized. I had already decided that I would pay Anaukaq’s and Kali’s transportation and other expenses from my personal funds, but I was unsure about how to cover the other costs of bringing several members of their families along. Some of the committee recommended that we cut costs by reducing the number of family members traveling on this first trip. But we all agreed Anaukaq wanted his five sons with him and Kali wanted his only son and one grandson to join him. This meant a minimum of nine family members plus the translator. Also, Malina served as Anaukaq’s nurse, so she would have to come along. And Aviaq did not want Malina and her father to leave without her. Reluctant as I was to leave Anaukaq’s and Kali’s sons and grandchildren behind, I had to concede it was unlikely that I could raise the thousands of dollars necessary to bring them along. The committee suggested a more modest plan of bringing Anaukaq, Kali, a translator, and one assistant on the first U.S. visit. We could try to bring other family members sometime later.
Just when we had all but given up hope of finding outside financial support, I remembered a chance encounter I had had some ten years earlier with a man who shared my admiration for Matthew Henson. This man, too, is one of my heroes, and he had told me about the role Matthew Henson had played in his own successful career. I had filed this remarkable story away in the back of my mind years ago. Now, as if by divine intervention, I retrieved it at a critical juncture.
The man was John H. Johnson, chairman of the Johnson Publishing Company and publisher of Ebony and Jet. Johnson and his publishing empire represent a historical institution in America. He is an icon in the black communities of the world. From very humble beginnings like Henson’s he has risen to become one of the wealthiest and most accomplished men in America.
After fleeing racially oppressive Arkansas in the thirties, Johnson and his mother moved to Chicago. His mother encouraged him to become a businessman and, when he reached adulthood, she helped him borrow five hundred dollars to support his idea of starting the new magazine he named Ebony. Johnson launched his publishing venture in 1945, when postwar America was beginning to deal with civil rights, and black Americans were in the incipient stages of developing a substantial middle class.
Like all magazines, Ebony needed business advertisements to survive. But all the large wholesale and retail businesses in Chicago were owned by whites. So Johnson and his wife, Eunice, would go from business to business, door to door in Chicago, trying to obtain the necessary advertising to keep his magazine afloat. This kind of effort was unprecedented in 1945, and Johnson, like most black entrepreneurs, was unable to establish substantive business relationships with the white establishments of Chicago. He went as far as hiring white ethnics to try to sell the ads to white businesses in Chicago, but without success. He found that even those businesses that had a large black clientele would not purchase advertising space from him. In many ways, Chicago was as racially biased as his native Arkansas.
But Johnson and his wife persevered. She would often wait in the car while he tried, usually without success, to get past a secretary and meet with the head of a corporation to discuss advertising space in Ebony.
As Johnson tells the story, his luck changed one day in 1946 when he entered the headquarters of Zenith Radio Corporation in Chicago to meet with its chairman, retired commander Eugene F. McDonald. McDonald had agreed to give Johnson a brief audience to hear about his business venture.
When he entered the office, McDonald stood, extended his hand, and cordially welcomed the well-dressed young entrepreneur. He offered Johnson a seat in one of the dark leather chairs in his office. “Do you see those snowshoes there on my wall, Johnson?” McDonald asked. “Those snowshoes were given to me by one of the greatest explorers in the history of Arctic exploration. He was a better man than any three white men put together—and he happens to be of your race.” McDonald explained that the snowshoes had been given to him by Matthew Henson after he returned from the North Pole with Peary. Rubbing the walrus-skin strings of the snowshoes as if they were precious gems, he asked Johnson if he had ever heard of Matthew Henson.
Johnson told McDonald that he had just done a story on Henson in his new magazine, Ebony. He handed McDonald a copy of the magazine, feeling proud that he had carefully researched McDonald’s interests before the meeting and learned that Arctic exploration was one of his passions.
McDonald skimmed through the magazine until he reached the story on Henson. He quickly read over parts of the story, then looked up at Johnson. McDonald was impressed. He mentioned that Henson had written an autobiographical account of his North Pole experiences, which he had been unable to find anywhere. He asked Johnson if he would help him locate a copy, whereupon the well-prepared young publisher handed McDonald an autographed, hardcover edition of A Negro Explorer at the North Pole by Matthew Alexander Henson.
McDonald was flabbergasted. He thanked Johnson profusely as he thumbed through the book.
“Mr. Johnson, how can I help you?” McDonald asked.
Johnson told him that he wanted to sell Zenith some advertising space in his new magazine. He described Ebony as a human-interest magazine that featured educational, social, cultural, and political articles by and about blacks in America and other parts of the world, and he expressed confidence in its potential for success. Johnson had actually been trying for months to get ads from Zenith, but on each occasion he had been turned away, usually by McDonald’s secretary.
McDonald pressed his intercom and asked his secretary to step into his office. To Johnson’s—and the secretary’s—surprise, he asked her to arrange to have Zenith ads placed in Ebony on a regular basis. McDonald also agreed to ask some of his business associates to have their companies buy advertising space in Ebony.
Johnson thanked McDonald and left. A few days later, he received his first substantial advertising account from Zenith. Soon other large white-owned Chicago businesses bought advertising space as well. Johnson Publishing Company was off and running, and Matthew Henson had unwittingly played a major role in another historic moment.
I wrote John H. Johnson and reminded him of our meeting and mentioned my recollection of this remarkable story. I told him about Anaukaq and Kali and asked whether he would consider defraying some of the costs of the North Pole Family Reunion.
Johnson telephoned me immediately upon receiving my letter. “Amazing,” he said. “Dr. Counter, have you actually found a son that Matthew Henson fathered in the Arctic?” he asked.
“That’s right, Mr. Johnson—and Henson’s five grandsons, and twenty-two great-grandchildren.”
“That is incredible!” he said. “How on earth did you find them?”
I told him the story from the beginning. I could tell from his voice that he was deeply moved.
“How can I help you, Dr. Counter?”
“Well, sir, I am trying to raise money to pay for the North Pole Family Reunion project. I am using my own funds for some things, but I need more money to make the project a memorable success. I wondered if you would
be willing to make a contribution to the effort?”
“Dr. Counter, I support what you are trying to do. Matthew Henson is our hero, and it is just great to know that you are trying to keep his memory alive. You have brought this project this far, and I have all the faith in the world that you will carry it through. I want to help you in any way that I can. Just write me and tell me what you need.”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”
I was bursting with joy and pride—joy that I had finally secured the necessary funds, pride that John H. Johnson, a man I greatly admired, had agreed to cosponsor the project. I drew up a budget and sent it off. A short time later I received a check and Johnson’s best wishes for success. The North Pole Family Reunion was now closer to reality.
Anaukaq and his family wanted to visit in the late spring of 1987, and we agreed upon late May to early June as the best time for everyone. The only problem now was that this date gave us very little time for preparation. We needed passports, visas, and other documents that would normally take months to process. So we wasted no time in organizing the tour.
At our next committee meeting, we planned the official North Pole Family Reunion itinerary. We carefully selected the cities and sites that held special significance in the lives of Anaukaq’s and Kali’s fathers. Formal ceremonies were planned for each stop on the tour, involving local family and officials. Several students were selected as hosts and escorts for the tour, and other committee members were assigned various tasks. I would spend the next weeks on the telephone or in writing letters in an effort to implement our plans.
Perhaps our most important decision was to start the North Pole Family Reunion at Harvard. Our committee felt that we had such widespread support for the project in the Harvard community that it would be a good idea to hold the welcoming reception at the university. Such an arrangement would also protect Anaukaq and Kali from the uncertainties of a more public reception, where we would be less able to control events and people. In addition, we decided that a single North Pole Family Reunion Banquet involving Hensons, Pearys, and friends from all over the nation would be more practical than trying to hold several small banquets in different cities. This “neutral” venue was agreeable to most of the family members, although some still wanted small banquets in their hometowns. We chose Harvard’s historic Memorial Hall as the banquet site.
North Pole Legacy Page 14