The McCarthy operation is based on a network of storefronts, neighborhood headquarters, from which door-to-door canvassing is organized. Most storefronts handle up to 50 precincts. Ours, due to the nature of the ward, was to concentrate on only five. It was just the kind of lost cause McCarthy volunteers like best. The Negroes were solidly Kennedy; the whites were basically conservative, leaning toward Branigin and Nixon.
The Barrington project most closely resembles World War Two army housing. It is not an urban ghetto like Roxbury, but neither does it have the suburban appearance of Watts. There are few trees, but many open sewage ditches. The air is warm and heavy like a Southern town. Down at the Barrington Lounge, the local hotspot, you wouldn't be surprised to find Rod Steiger roughing up a few of the "nigras."
The people of Barrington, once you get them to talk, are discontented. Their apartments are crammed in files of one or two level units. Each contains two bedrooms and a living room which melts into a kitchen. No room is larger than ten-by-ten. The FHA is soon to take over the private project. Monthly rents--already high--will be replaced by compulsory fiveyear leases. It will be impossible to raise a growing family in any of the available units.
But the blacks are generally passive. The local chapters of SCLC and CORE have little practical structure. There is no black power movement. Most of the local Negro leaders endorsed McCarthy, with little noticeable effect on their people. The Negroes of Barrington have been intimidated for years. They don't want to risk what they do have. Even McCarthy's proposed guaranteed annual income through a negative income tax was suspect. The people of Barrington work for what they get. They resent it--silently.
Our storefront was located in one of the housing units. Our permanent staff had become part of the community. In three days, we visited every family in the ward, many of them twice. In three weeks, the staff car had logged 1700 miles criss-crossing the area. One by one, we hoped we were prying votes away from the other Democratic contenders.
Kennedy-Kennedy
"Hey, man, here's what he looks like!" The kids, especially the younger teenagers, would have his picture. A dedicated head on white cardboard emitting all the warmth of a high school graduation photo. Whenever one of our cars was parked for a few moments, it would be plastered with his bumper stickers. "Man, we don't none o' that McCarty. We want Kennedy--Kennedy!"
Who is this man, Kennedy-Kennedy? For the Barrington Negro, he is a great white god in the guise of a handsome young man who has somehow transcended his whiteness. He is the man, they tell you, who spent his time during the Kennedy administration pleading for the Negro through the South. He has given tremendous amounts of money--10 percent of his worth, one lady claimed--to SCLC. He talks nice, he cares. He reminds some of them of his late brother. For others, he is quite literally John Kennedy.
You can't knock a god, though we tried. We knew the people trusted us as much as they trusted any white man. We took part in their activities. One night we went to a fair in School 64--the Harriet Beecher Stowe School. Sunday morning, we went to one of the local Baptist churches. The neighbors would occasionally cook something for us--fried fish, perhaps, or a cake. The smaller kids adopted us and conducted guerrilla forays in the name of McCarthy. But they were our only converts.
SOMEHOW, McCarthy remained a distant, dangerous politician to the community. He hadn't visited the McCarthy in each precinct. By noon, we knew only a handful were registered voters. In one precinct, the vote ran: Branigin, 25; McCarthy, 27; area, as Kennedy had. It probably would have made much difference. Paul Newman had visited Barrington and received a cool reception. The people couldn't be talked out of Kennedy. Their reasons for voting for him had hardened. Some left he would clean up the garbage. One woman preferred McCarthy, but said she would vote for Bobby because he "quivers my liver." That's charisma, man.
The election results were not surprising. We had estimated that there were about 50 people leaning toward Kennedy, 550. In the white areas, the vote was distributed much more equally. But Indianapolis is 45 per cent Negro. Kennedy captured the city.
The Caucus Race
Senator McCarthy denied it, but the fact remained that all the candidates had been running a caucus race. And now they would all demand the prize. It was another inconclusive primary.
Since the polls had closed at seven, the volunteers had been dragging back into headquarters. McCarthy Headquarters occupied the first two floors of the Claypool Hotel; the remaining floors had been gutted by fire a few months earlier. Tuesday night, it was filled with exhausted, slightly depressed volunteers. A dixieland band only aggravated the prevailing tension.
About ten, the Senator arrived. He was excited, but, characteristically, he tried to control a smile. Most of the volunteers had forced their way into the press room, where he was to make his first statement. The room was crowded, hot. The crowd became jubilant. We were still two points ahead of Branigin. "I am not here to dismiss the troops," the Senator began.
The kids responded with cheers and victory signs. Many tried to touch the Senator with all the abandon of a Kennedy crowd. He worked his way through the room, shaking hands and quietly thanking us.
It had not been a victory, true, but neither had it been a defeat. McCarthy, even in an uncongenial state, still couldn't be beaten. Some staff members were leaving that night for Nebraska. Others would be going on to California the next day. The staff room was jammed with volunteers asking for full-time staff applications. Many had decided to screw school and stay with the campaign. Others would get out to the Coast after exams. And everyone promised to meet in Chicago. The crusade was still snowballing; the entourage of idealistic college dropouts was growing. Someone made a sign: Robert Lowell for Secretary of State. We were dreaming once again.
The next day, a few of us were waiting at the airport trying to catch a flight back to Boston. A flight through Cincinnati and Washington was about to leave. We stood, un washed, bleary-eyed in the half-fare line. Just before take-off, Larry O'Brien, ex-Postmaster General now masterminding Bobby's campaign, arrived. We hissed. He turned, glanced at our buttons, smiled. We told him we would see him in California. The Crusade had still to reach the Holy Land