Kennedy had asked Sinatra and Peter Lawford, husband of Kennedy’s sister Pat, to produce the gala with just a few weeks’ notice. They called in all the greats, from Ethel Merman and Nat King Cole to Lena Horne, Sir Laurence Olivier, Anthony Quinn, and Leonard Bernstein. Olivier was on Broadway in Beckett, and Merman was starring in Gypsy, so Sinatra just bought all the seats in both houses for the evening in order to get the stars onboard. Of all the obvious luminaries, only Sammy Davis, Jr., was absent. Former ambassador Joseph Kennedy had decided that Sammy’s recent interracial marriage to May Britt, at which Frank had served as best man, made him too controversial for the evening—at least for those southern yellow-dog Democrats who’d helped put John Kennedy over the top. My own marriage to Julie wasn’t remotely an issue; we didn’t carry the baggage that Sammy did. Sammy was a loose cannon, stirring controversy with everything he did—the girls, the gambling, the booze—and, typically, he’d managed with his marriage to May to make as much tabloid news as possible. Sinatra was appalled to have to relay the news to Sammy, and Sammy was doubly crushed, both by the Kennedys’ brush-off and by Frank’s willingness to go along with it. As for myself, I didn’t find out about it till later. On the night of the gala, I saw a lot of black faces—Nat King Cole, Lena Horne, Ella Fitzgerald, Mahalia Jackson, and Sidney—and felt good about that.
The day of the gala—January 19, 1961—heavy snow began falling early over the capital. By nightfall, Washington was paralyzed. Undeterred, Frank arranged to have school buses transport the stars from their hotels to the National Guard Armory, and to have snowplows clear the way for each bus convoy. Once they arrived at the armory, there were even special little footbridges to get the ladies in their gowns across the snowdrifts.
The gala was well worth the journey. Gene Kelly did a song-and-dance version of “The Hat Me Dear Old Father Wore.” Ethel Merman stood right in front of the President-elect and belted out, “You’ll be swell! You’ll be great! / Gonna have the whole world on a plate!” Nat King Cole sang “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top,” and then I gave the room my best “John Henry.” Frank, not to be outdone, did “You Make Me Feel So Young,” and Jimmy Durante sang “September Song.” For the finale, Frank had the best songwriters in the business work up a medley of popular songs, with humorous new lyrics for the occasion, each ditty to be sung by a different one of us. I sang “My Bobby, My Bobby, He Loves Me,” to the tune of “I Love My Baby—My Baby Loves Me,” and got an appreciative grin from the President and the prospective Attorney General.
A new era had begun for the country, the civil rights movement—and me.
PART TWO
12
I wasn’t an artist who’d become an activist. I was an activist who’d become an artist. Ever since my mother had drummed it into me, I’d felt the need to fight injustice wherever I saw it, in whatever way I could. Somehow my mother had made me feel it was my job, my obligation. “And don’t ever give in,” I can hear her say still. “Don’t let them get you. You fight, boy. You fight.” So I’d spoken up, and done some marching, and then found my power in songs of protest, and sorrow, and hope.
I’d worked for a lot of causes since then, gone to a lot of rallies. But at the same time, I kept my priorities clear. It was hard enough to have scaled the highest peaks of the entertainment world: Broadway, Hollywood, the record business, television, and Vegas. No way was I going to slide back down those peaks any sooner than I had to. Behind the Harry Belafonte audiences saw—smiling and relaxed—was a grim perfectionist. And woe to the musician who missed his cue, or the agent who fouled up a booking—this man had a temper. After all, I had a lot to lose! And so when causes made greater and greater claims on my time, I took care to keep the franchise intact.
Now, as the fight for civil rights in America grew fiery, I found myself getting more involved, not just as a celebrity presence but as an active member of Dr. King’s inner circle, and as a mediator behind the scenes. I did my best to maintain my commitments as an entertainer. But sometime at the start of the 1960s, the balance tipped. For all the passion I still showed onstage, as a man, I felt far more immersed in a movement that could not—must not—fail.
Half a century later, I sometimes wonder: Was it worth it? Was I wise to give so much of the money I had to the movement? I assumed I’d be a wealthy man when I grew older, and although I live comfortably, I’m not. There are several reasons for that, but giving millions to the cause is certainly one of them. Speaking out as much as I did in the sixties probably hurt my career as well. I can’t measure that. I can’t see how many people in the audience slipped away. I just have to assume I might have sold a few more records, maybe hosted a few more television variety shows, and appeared in a few more movies, if I hadn’t become Harry Belafonte, political activist, instead of Harry Belafonte, singer and actor who sometimes helped a cause.
The irony is that as much as I did for the movement in public, I did much more in private. For starters, I really was right in the middle between Martin Luther King, on the one hand, and the Kennedys, John and Bobby, on the other, as a new administration took office and hopes rose for change. And whatever hits I took to my wallet and career, I have no regrets about that.
“Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country,” the new President declared in his inaugural address. One thing Americans could do, as of March 1, 1961, was join the Peace Corps, created by Kennedy with a stroke of his pen. Soon after, I got a call from Sargent Shriver, the President’s brother-in-law and newly named Peace Corps director. Shriver told me he had the perfect post for me.
The Kennedy clan hadn’t reached out to me because they liked the way I sang. Wherever they looked in the civil rights movement, I had already made it my business to be there. And not just as a celebrity lending his name. In that tense moment when Martin was imprisoned before the election and a lot of southern votes hinged on what the Kennedys did, I had demonstrated that what I brought to the table occupied a strategic space, not only with Martin but with all the players around him. Also, my instincts were based on genuine experience and legitimate observation, and carried value both in counseling the Kennedys to help Martin and in counseling Martin on how much we could expect from the Kennedys. Neither the President nor his brother Bobby yet appreciated how much of an issue civil rights would be on their watch. But they did see Martin as the movement’s leader, and me as a conduit to him, one they felt more at ease with than a goodly number of the southern Baptist preachers who made up most of Martin’s circle.
At the same time, the Kennedys saw I had a larger portfolio. As an entertainer, I was known now around the world. My concerts in Germany in 1958 had created a lot of goodwill for America that was not as easily achieved by a politically appointed ambassador. Through Eleanor Roosevelt, I’d met leading figures in several of the newly—or soon-to-be—independent African nations; when they came to the United States, I was on their itineraries. I’d introduced Miriam Makeba to audiences at home and abroad; even without speaking out, she’d come to embody the plight of Africa and the hope of the peoples of Africa. Plus I’d helped sponsor the Airlift Africa program, which the Kennedy family foundation had funded in part. With Kennedy in the White House, more airlifts were scheduled, not just from Kenya but from other emerging African nations. Hundreds of students would benefit, including Barack Obama, Sr., whose studies in Hawaii would be underwritten by my friend Tom Mboya’s and our African-American Students Foundation.
I represented, in short, an opportunity for outreach, both in the States and abroad—but also a risk. I could be helpful. But in the beginning, there would be many concerns. How does such a public celebrity maintain the kind of confidentiality that is necessary? How does a high-profile entertainer balance his self-interest when dealing with the likes of Walter Winchell and Dorothy Kilgallen—influential columnists hungry for information, who could help my career—with the strict discretion necessary for shuttling between the White House and the c
ivil rights movement? It was a difficult challenge, but I managed it. One thing that helped tremendously was the offer by Shriver, endorsed by the President, to become the “cultural adviser” to the Peace Corps, focusing on emerging African nations. I was also asked to sit on the Corps’s new governing board. Unofficially, I suspected, my greater role was to talk Martin and the other civil rights leaders into doing what the administration hoped they would do.
During this time, perceptions were being shaped. My growing closeness to the Kennedys raised questions by some in the movement who saw this relationship as a threat. Malcolm X, for instance. There was so much about Malcolm that I admired, even agreed with, but since he and I did not see eye to eye on some important issues, I never had the opportunity to talk to him in any reasonable way about the specifics of my involvement with the Kennedys. I was never able to help him, or even let him come to a more enlightened understanding of who I was and what I was doing.
One day that spring, Julie and I brought three-and-a-half-year-old David with us for a celebratory Oval Office meeting with the President. As the grown-ups stood talking, David wandered over to the President’s desk and started investigating the desktop objects that were, for him, right at eye level. Noting this, the President went over to hand him a legal pad and pen. David sat in the President’s chair, drawing for a minute, then came over to tug the President’s jacket. “It doesn’t work,” he said, holding up the pen. The President tried it. David was right. “David,” said the President, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, a lot of things around here don’t work.”
I was hardly immune to the Kennedy charm, but I viewed the President and his Peace Corps offer with a certain wariness. I knew he viewed me the same way. We had mutual interests, but we sensed they might diverge. All across Africa, nations were in upheaval. In Kenya, the British had savagely quashed the Mau Mau uprising, but soon would surrender their colony, just as Tom Mboya foresaw. Algeria and other French colonies were lurching in chaos and violence toward independence, too. And South Africa’s white ruling party had just voted to become an apartheid republic free of the British Crown. All these and others were Cold War pawns, and wherever Kennedy looked, he saw rebels armed by Russia. I knew he would tend to support right-wing leaders who parroted the anti-communist line, no matter how repressive they were. After all, this was the American way. My views would be more nuanced. But for now, we could agree that sending America’s top black entertainer to Africa would show a lot of goodwill, and might even bring some political dividends.
I knew I was being used, but I was using the Kennedys, too. Africa had fascinated me ever since I was a boy hearing my mother talk of Marcus Garvey and his pan-African dreams. The continent’s role in World War II had only deepened my interest—and my empathy. Black African troops had gone into battle for the Dutch, the French, and the British, fighting for the same cause and dream that American blacks did: to vanquish the armies of white supremacy, and reap the fruits of true democracy. The war’s aftermath had left them as disillusioned as it did us. Hitler and Stalin were gone, but the colonies they came home to were just as repressive as before. The difference was that they, like American blacks, resisted oppression, and began demanding the freedom they were due. By the late 1950s, American and African blacks saw themselves as allies in a common struggle. So my interest in Africa was not just about retracing roots or reveling in African music and dance. It was about forging a bond in the fight for human and civil rights. Eleanor Roosevelt had started me on this road by introducing me to Africa’s new leaders. Now I could be, for them, an emissary from Washington. It was all pretty irresistible. And I knew exactly what I wanted to do first: go to the newly independent Guinea as a guest of its highly charismatic president, Ahmed Sékou Touré.
I’d met Sékou Touré through his ambassador to the U.N., Achar Maroff, one of Eleanor Roosevelt’s introductions. In many ways, Sékou Touré was the most beguiling of the new young African leaders. Just five years older than I was, stunningly handsome, with coal-black skin, high cheekbones, and a dazzling smile, he swept into a room like a prince, wearing a white fez cocked at a rakish angle and brilliant white ceremonial robes. That man knew how to make an entrance. You had no choice but to stare at him, and when he chose to return your gaze, you felt rooted to the spot. He had strong, poetic hands that he’d gesture with as he started to talk, and in a sense they expressed his power. You didn’t see force in the shape of a fist; you saw the poetic use of it. But if he disagreed with what he heard, the smile could vanish, and Sékou Touré would strike another pose. His eyes would start to flash as he launched into a rebuttal during which no one dared to interrupt him.
To all of Africa, Sékou Touré was a hero who’d stood up to France and paid the price. Three years before, Charles de Gaulle had assumed emergency power as France’s “premier” and, as part of his plan to revamp both France and its restive colonies, grandly offered the colonies a choice. They could become members of the French Commonwealth and enjoy its patronage and protection. Or they could have their independence and cut all ties with the mother country. In fact, de Gaulle had played the only card he had. France’s foreign influence had already taken a heavy hit with its defeat in Vietnam. Now Algeria was pulling away from French control in its bloody war of independence, and the rest of France’s African colonies might well follow if not given this sop. Most colonies took the deal; of all the French colonial leaders, only Sékou Touré, who was the first to respond, dared go it alone. De Gaulle was enraged. Before pulling his military out of Guinea, he’d directed it to ransack the capital of Conakry, blowing up schools and government buildings, destroying the electric grid and the harbor, to show what came of spurning la France. The damage was devastating.
Guinea was still a ruin when I arrived, but Sékou Touré was doing his best to turn it into a utopian socialist state. As he explained over our first dinner, at the former French embassy, he’d made the farmer the most important figure in the country. He’d done all he could to encourage farmers to remain deep in the rural interior, from building schools in remote areas to establishing distribution lines to bring their goods to the capital. He knew all too well the chaos that ensued when a country’s rural poor flocked to the city. All this he explained in French, while Achar sat between us, translating.
Sékou Touré talked of Guinea’s natural resources—bauxite, diamonds, gold, and more—but with me he stressed the country’s cultural riches. Guinea’s drummers were Africa’s finest. Its dancers were world-renowned, performing in magnificent masks and costumes. I was the new Peace Corps representative from America; I must see for myself! And so, the next morning, we boarded Sékou Touré’s helicopter for a tour of the country that was both exhilarating and a little zany.
We flew first to Nzérékoré, in the southernmost tip of the country, where a military contingent in splendid uniforms stood at attention on the tarmac. Sékou Touré inspected the troops, so I walked behind him, inspecting them, too, as official photographers snapped away. Damn, I thought, wait till Sidney sees this. A cortege of long black cars awaited us. Sékou Touré and I got into the second car, and we headed off, led by a convoy of motorcycles. The presidential car was a convertible, and Sékou Touré rode with the top down so he could wave at and be seen by his loyal subjects. Unfortunately, the dirt road was dry, and the lead car kicked up clouds of dust, so Sékou Touré had his driver pull into the lead, and ordered the motorcycles to drive well ahead.
Sékou Touré, I soon saw, was an inveterate catnapper. He’d slide back in his seat, close his eyes, and be asleep almost instantly. It dawned on me that perhaps he was giving himself little rests from my company; talking through an interpreter was tiring, and we had a long way to go. Invariably, when he woke up, Sékou Touré would hawk up a huge gob of spit and aim it out his open window, then fish from his pocket a long white silk handkerchief not unlike my uncle Lenny’s, and wipe his mouth. Every so often, while he was sleeping, a short tropical cloudburst would force the drive
r to pull over and put up the electrically operated windows and convertible top. Soon the rain would end, back down would come the windows and ragtop, and we’d be on to the next village.
The United States was providing no aid to Guinea, for the boneheaded reason that France was our ally and France was still mad at Sékou Touré. What a waste, I thought. Just by making the humanitarian gesture of fixing the infrastructure France had destroyed, we could earn Sékou Touré’s goodwill and start pulling the rest of West Africa our way. As a first step, I suggested, why not a cultural exchange? The dancers and drummers and singers I heard on my tour were so remarkable, their tribal differences so dramatic; why not get them over to Carnegie Hall and the Carter Barron? Back in Conakry, I suggested that Guinea work up to this by building a national arts center where all its brilliant performing and fine arts could be showcased and studied, and also preserved as change came in the post-colonial era. There was, in fact, no theater at all in the city. “Who will pay for that?” Sékou Touré asked dryly. “Your President?”
“Your dancers,” I said. “The richness of the Guinean culture. People will come to see them, and the money will follow.”
By the time I left, I’d sketched out a plan to bring a whole contingent of American theater talents to Guinea, from performing-arts-center architects to stage and set and costume designers. They’d build a center that expressed the country’s artistic spirit. I hoped that, as it progressed, the Kennedy administration would chip in. But until it did, I would underwrite the project myself. On that, I gave Sékou Touré my word.
My Song Page 29