Interview with Isadore M. Martin, Jr., February 24, 1987



MARTIN: --in which I gave the history, and the part they played. There

should be one down in the historical society. And I guess about 19-, after World

War II, about 1948, or maybe 1949, maybe it was 1950, I wrote another one. It

was on housing problems of the Philadelphia Negro population.

HARDY: So it’s quite a while, a ways back. Let’s start with, can you

describe me the nature of race relations in the city during the 19-teens and

‘20s, when you were, I guess what, in grade and high school, right, as a young man?

MARTIN: Um-hm. During the, I guess you would say the 1920s, the late teens, and

the 1920s, you had a period when there was a heavy migration of Negroes to

Philadelphia, and there was just a little general period of adjustment between

the racial groups. You had the residents, the colored residents who had been

here for a number of years, and you had the newer people. Primarily, those who

moved here were motivated by the desire to get better jobs, and to have better

living conditions, and escape from the prejudice and discrimination which they

experienced in the South. And that was a prime basis of the movement. Along with

that, you had, of course, some who had a problem making the adjustment from,

perhaps in some cases, rural ways to city ways. And they were crowded, very

often crowded into inferior housing in sections of the city that were, were not

the best. The, generally, I would say that Philadelphia took on some of the

attributes of a Southern city. You had discrimination in the theaters,

restaurants, and, of course, in employment, many doors were closed. And this was

quite an eye-opener for many from the South, because in the South, the skilled

laborer had a chance to apply his vocation—the bricklayer, the carpenter—but

in Philadelphia, the unions absolutely shut out the Negro skilled laborer. He

couldn’t get in the union, therefore, he couldn’t get a job. There was a

period of, when the young children came into the schools, and despite laws of

the state of Pennsylvania that said there should be no segregation in schools,

the school board established some schools as so-called colored schools in areas

where there was a large population of Negroes. It was, I would say, sort of an

exploratory period there, and while, for the average newcomer, things were

better, yet there were many restrictions, particularly as far as housing. He was

limited as to where he could live. He would go into a real estate office, and

they’d have a big sign up there: ‘Real Estate, Houses for Rent”. One black

board would be, say, “White,” the other would say, “Colored.”

HARDY: In Philadelphia?

MARTIN: In Philadelphia. And this, actually, this happened at the time of World

War II, that was still here. I know of several offices in West Philadelphia on

40th Street that had that sign. I mean, that was a very common thing. They would

have “Colored,” and there was advertising in the newspapers that would say,

“Colored.” If it’s not “Colored,” then you knew it, a colored family

was not welcome. And it was not until after World War II that we were able to

get the newspapers to stop advertising the “Colored” in the real estate sale

and rent listings. So there certainly was, there has never been any law

authorizing, and there have been no court decisions on restrictive covenants.

But yet, restrictive covenants were placed very commonly on all new housing, and

in many cases, they were inserted in the mortgages, which was a barrier. So, in

effect, what you have in Philadelphia, like, unlike other countries, other

cities, Negroes were just barred from new housing. All they got was the

hand-me-downs. There are few exceptions, but those are very few.

HARDY: Can you tell me more about-- segregation in the hotels, restaurants,

theaters, that sort of thing. Now, you were, I guess you were born in the city.

Your father had come up before you were born. Or were you already born in the

South and came up when you were young?

MARTIN: I was a baby when I came up, yes, a baby.

HARDY: You were. Okay. So you really grew up in the city.

MARTIN: I grew up here, yes.

HARDY: How did you learn where you were welcome, where you weren’t welcome?

You know, and what was it like to be a teenager or a kid in—

MARTIN: Well, when let me put it this way, when I was a boy, I lived in West

Philadelphia. And the West Philadelphia theaters, like many of the others,

segregated. They’d either have the colored patrons go up in the balcony, or

they would go at one side and have one side for white, and one side for colored.

So I never went to a theater in West Philadelphia. I never permitted myself, my

father would never permit any of us, to accept any segregation of that kind. But

it was just known, when the applicant went in, they would tell him, all right,

you go upstairs, or you, you go wherever you are. As a matter of fact, that

considered and that continued in some of the downtown theaters. And it continued

until 19-, it was about 1934 when we had a test case at the Stanton Theater, and

I went in, I was asked to sit upstairs, I refused, and we took out a warrant

under an existing old act against the theater manager. The, when it came to

trial, it was knocked out. I did not understand then, but I do now. But they

stopped it. And when I went to the theater, I, we would go over to New York, we

had Sunday excursions, I’d go up to New York maybe seven or eight times a

year. I’d go to a movie there. And I would go to, there was a theater on South

Street, the Royal Theater, sometimes there, and there was one theater my mother

went to, she would take me sometimes in Center City, where they did not

segregate. But the pattern in neighborhoods where there was any considerable

population, and most of the center cities was like that. I remember at this

particular case, the Stanton Theater, at that time, and I was secretary of the

Philadelphia branch of the NAACP, and my father wrote a letter to Jacob

Billikopf, who was director of the Federation of Jewish Charities, saying that

he felt that it was a terrible thing that this discrimination existed when the

theaters were owned by Jewish people who, in Europe, were experiencing all of

the terrible things the Hitler regime was doing to them. Mr. Billikopf sent my

father a copy of the letter, and the man who was head of the theater chain there

at the time had just come from St. Louis. He never answered, and he never

changed the policy, that is to say, until we arrested this man under that. In

1937, when I was secretary of the Philadelphia branch of the NAACP, we had an

equal rights law passed which prohibited segregation in theaters, restaurants,

and places of public accommodations. And that was a—

HARDY: Yeah. Yeah, I want to ask you more about that later. Do, keeping into

this earlier period—

MARTIN: The earlier period.

HARDY: Yeah. Do you know of any cases in which, during the 19-teens or ‘20s,

any people did try and challenge the segregation in the theaters?

MARTIN: I am not sure. I think what happened with most people is they just did

not go. In, in other words, you did not subject yourself to any segregation

which is not necessary. Just as in the South, you must, out of necessity, go

from place to place, so you do not demean yourself if you ride on a Jim Crow

car, because it is a necessity. But you do demean yourself if you go to a

segregated theater or segregated position in a restaurant.

HARDY: Hm. How about in the restaurants? What, tell me about, you know, the

nature of the restaurants. Were they exact, analogous to the theaters? Were

there differences in--

MARTIN: Well, restaurants—no, frankly, except in a neighborhood where the

population was 80 or 90 percent colored, and that represented the patronage,

they would not. Ice cream parlors would not. The service was just denied. About

the only place in those days where one could go would be Horn and Hardart’s

Automat where you put a dime or a quarter in the slot, and got your meal. And,

of course, some of the Horn and Hardart’s cafeterias, they had segregation.

They had some suits on them, which finally broke that up. But you were just

barred as far as getting a meal was concerned, unless you went to a stand up

counter, a 10-cent store or fast food—well, there weren’t fast food places

then, but a little counter where they had no seats, just handed it out.

HARDY: Hm. And how about in hotels?

MARTIN: Hotels were completely barred. They just would not accept colored guests.

HARDY: So what did black conventioneers, or visitors, or, you know, people

coming to the city on business, where would they sleep?

MARTIN: There were a few colored hotels, which were not generally first-class.

The one exception was a hotel, The Hotel Dale, which lasted for about a year at

South [ ]. And that was the one first-class hotel. That was about 1922, I

think. Otherwise, in coming, if you had people coming, you would arrange for a

friend to take them in, and you had people who would take paying guests. So you

stayed with a private family. Or if you were a man, you perhaps would get a room

down at the YMCA, and it had to be the segregated YMCA at 17th and Christian,

because Christianity had not yet come the YMCA at Broad and Arch Street, the

main branch. And they would turn them down up there. The YWCA here had very

limited, if any, overnight facilities. So, if somebody came, when the NAACP had

their convention here, I think it was in 1920-, about 1922, all of the delegates

stayed in private homes. And, of course, they paid for it. But I mean, they had

a registry bureau, and people made their homes available, and rented a room for

them, and that was that. But hotels were absolutely closed. The one exception

might be maybe once in a while, if someone came, I remember the president of

Liberia came here. We had, and he was invited to stay at the Bellevue-Stratford

Hotel, but he decided he wanted to stay down at the Hotel Dale, which was then

going at that time.

HARDY: Yeah. I remember that, reading The Tribune about how, (buzzer sounds)

I’m not sure whether he was kicked out of the, the Belle—

[Pause in recording.]

MARTIN: I think, I remember my father mentioning it, and I think he said he

preferred to stay. I mean, I don’t think he was—

HARDY: Was run out of there.

MARTIN: I think he was offered the, the—but that was the rare case. I imagine

if Booker T. Washington had come here, then he would have stayed there, but that—

HARDY: Right. Where else did one experience the Philadelphia style of

segregation mostly, besides the public accommodations in theaters and

restaurants? And what sort of other occasions in one’s daily life?

MARTIN: Well, housing, when he wanted to rent or buy a house, he was just up

against a stone wall. He was limited as to where he could go. And real estate

brokers enforced an informal code, whereby they just would not rent to a colored

family, or sell to a colored family. Of course, in the schools, they would try

and steer students to a so-called colored school. A colored school was one in

which you had a colored faculty, and, of course, in Philadelphia, until just

before World War I, no colored teacher taught in anything but a grade school. We

had several with PhD degrees. They had to go elsewhere to seek their talents.

And then, of course, in employment. As far as white-collar employment, there

just was not, except, unless it was with a firm, a colored business, or a

colored firm. The National Negro Business here—League—met here one year, and

they were entertained down at the Wanamaker’s store, and my father made the

comment, “Well, the only job they can get down there is running an

elevator.” And unfortunately, that was true until about the time World War II.

That continued. But you could not get it. The jobs were closed. The only jobs

that were open, in the government, the post office, and you had people who had

college degrees in the post office, and their supervisors were people who

hadn’t gone past the eighth grade, but they were Caucasian. There was very

little employment in the city, or state, or federal, other than the post office.

And, of course, the federal employment was knocked down because Woodrow Wilson,

who was one of the most prejudiced men that ever occupied the presidency,

changed the regulations so that, instead of one-two-three, you had an option, so

they would just knock out, and they’d put a photograph there, so they knocked

out the colored applicant when he came in to get a civil service job. In

schools, in your colleges, if you wanted to be, for example, if you wanted to be

a farmer, there were two schools here, the National Farm School, which is

sponsored by the Jewish people. They did not admit colored students. Nor did the

Episcopal Farm School, which is out on the Main Line past Paoli. So on both

sides, on both religions, it was par for the course, as far as that was

concerned. Drexel University, there were certain courses which Negroes were not

admitted. They did not admit girls to home economics course. And they’d admit

them to evening school, but there, there was considerable, there were

considerable problems until the late ‘30s, about admission to there. The

surrounding areas, Villanova, I had a friend who tried to get in there. Well,

the Catholic priest interceded. He was a football player. No. Swarthmore, no,

despite all the Quaker protestations about brotherhood, it was not until about

1940 that the first colored student was admitted to Swarthmore. And if you

wanted to get a business course, a business school would not accept you. I’m

interested to notice that the Peirce School shows pictures today of getting a

job, and it shows colored students. They would not admit colored students. If

you wanted to get a business course, you had to go to a state-supported school.

A private business school would not admit you.

HARDY: Yeah. I’ve heard of Dereks and Duncans, right? Those were the two [Inaudible].

MARTIN: Yes. Dereks and Duncan. And then Berean School. Yeah. And even the YWHA

had a school down at Broad and Pine. They did not admit them. I knew that

because I had a family friend who was an olive complexion, and they thought

probably she was Italian, and she was admitted, but that, if they had known her

racial identity, she would not have been admitted.

HARDY: Hm. What then were the advantages for blacks up from the South, or even

native Philadelphians, black families who, in living in Philadelphia, rather

than in a New York, or a Cleveland, or a Chicago, or—

MARTIN: Well, perhaps you got a job here. Perhaps you had relatives here. And

having settled here, people are generally loathe to move. Today, we move. I

mean, after World War II, everything changed. But prior to that, people just

didn’t move. You went to Philadelphia, and you looked for certain things, and

if you got a job of sorts, you got shelter, and you made it, at least you

escaped from the indignities and the humiliations of the South.

HARDY: So in comparison, it was “ughh, ughh.”

MARTIN: Oh, well yes. And in other words, you were free. You couldn’t be

grabbed, you couldn’t be harassed. You cannot be insulted with impunity.

HARDY: There’s another question I wanted to ask you about, and that is the

application of law enforcement in the city. Was there a-- in your daily

routines, or were Philadelphia police racially, did they resemble more of the

Southern-style of policing, or the Northern-style of policing, back during the

-teens and ‘20s?

MARTIN: I would say it pretty much depended on the individual. I mean, there was

no particular slant as far as the department was concerned. So, you had some

instances of police brutality, but it was not universal. And if you had, you did

have some redress. I mean, if you complained, why, something was usually done

about it.

HARDY: So you could get a fair shake in the courts in the city?

MARTIN: Oh, yes. Yes. Pretty fair shake, yes.

HARDY: Okay. Let me move into the area of real estate. And one of the things,

when talking with Mrs. Holland, she was talking about, she worked for a Mr.

Green when she started in the real estate business, I guess, out in--farther

west. And told me about a number of the blocks that they opened up, that he

opened up in West Philadelphia, and how they did it. And it seemed that even

with all of the restrictive covenants, and the groups like, I guess, West

Philadelphia Business Association, which was a group of white businessmen banded

together to prevent blacks from moving in, that still blocks were one by one

being opened. And her impression was that occasionally a group of neighbors

would come into the office, and rant and rave, that after they’d had their

say, they would leave, and there wasn’t the violence, or the—

MARTIN: Um-hm. There was very little violence when there was racial change. And

of course, it was a gradual process. And the point is usually that people were

able to get a higher price than they could from anybody else, so they sold. They

jacked up the price, and sold.

HARDY: I wanted to ask you about that. In the literature, it says black families

almost universally had to pay a higher price to get a house. You know, in just

looking at the difference between the price paid by white or black families,

blacks paid more, and that was one of the reasons that they were able to

purchase into these white neighborhoods.

MARTIN: Well, yes, I would say you had some unscrupulous people, and they were

both white and colored, who would buy and turn a profit on it.

HARDY: What were the techniques used?

MARTIN: Well, they’d buy the property under a straw name, and then they’d,

for we’ll say 8,000, and then they’d immediately resell it to a colored

family for 10,000. That was something which my father would never countenance,

and which he always criticized. And I’ve always done the same. I mean, it’s

uncalled for.

HARDY: Were there any efforts by the, the NAACP, or a group of realtors, or law

enforcement it the city to try and, for the housing association to try and alert

people to these practices, or prevent them, or prosecute cases, or—

MARTIN: Well, no. As far as the realtors, membership in the Philadelphia Board

of Realtors was restricted to Caucasians until about, I think it was about 1949.

My father was the first member. And I remember in 1937 when he applied for

membership, and he was told that the Real Estate Board was—this was the West

Philadelphia Real Estate Board—it was a social organization, which is

obviously ridiculous, but that was that. So they had no interest in it. And I

would say by-and-large, the way it was done, it was not something that an

organization could really go against. I would say, no there was no—except

buyers should be a little more intelligent. I mean, the more intelligent buyer

didn’t fall for it. He didn’t get it. But some were--many were exploited.

HARDY: Hm. Can you tell me a bit about the early days of the Philadelphia NAACP?

MARTIN: Yes, the NAACP was founded about 1912. My father came to the city in

1913, and he became secretary. And it was the one group that fought for civil

rights in the city. You had no governmental body which was at all interested.

There were white and colored people who worked together. You had a number of

people who were selfless, for example, my father was secretary, and then

president. He furnished the office space, and the clerical space. He never

received a salary, and he donated the clerical services which went along with

it. And they really did a job. That was the one voice against segregation. They

would fight against practices in schools, employment, all sources. They would

also, they would complain about segregation, but, in theaters, but not too many

of those cases came through, to light. As far as the, and they tried to get an

equal rights bill. One almost passed. And I guess it was about 1922, and it did

not. And well, they fought consistently to end segregation in public schools.

They were the only organization which fought discrimination.

HARDY: What were the major successes and major failures of the organization

during those early years?

MARTIN: Well, I would say perhaps the major failure was the inability to get a

civil rights bill through Harrisburg. They did stop some of the segregation in

schools, to some extent. There are many cases of injustice, people who have been

arrested unjustly; and they defended them. During World War I, there was

segregation against the Negro employees down at, we had a shipyard down near the

Navy Yard, known as Hog Island. There was a time when, well, this, well, this

comes up into my time—trying to break down discrimination in colleges. And

more or less in every avenue of life. I mean, anything that was done, the NAACP

did it, consistently.

HARDY: Hm. Can you move back a little bit closer to the mike there?

MARTIN: Yes. Um-hm.

HARDY: Right. Your father, it seemed that, you know, reading through the records

that to be a member of the NAACP, I would assume that there would have been a

great deal of disappointment. Did your father ever express his feelings about

it, you know, banging his head up against a brick wall, time after time?

MARTIN: Well, no, he just took it, that was part of it. In other words, you just

understood you had to keep fighting and fighting. And that’s, let’s see,

that’s like, in the Negro National Anthem, “Lift every voice and sing. Let

us fight on ‘til victory is won.” And, I mean, that was the attitude. There

was not an attitude of discouragement. But the walls came down little by little.

And I think it’s necessary to realize that what we have in Philadelphia today

is because of the gradual erosion during the years. I mean, it just didn’t

happen. You just didn’t start out, and have a march or demonstration, and do

it. But fighting constantly, constantly constantly over the years. You chipped

away at this wall of prejudice and segregation. And then, finally, the wall was

weakened enough so that you could, it went aside. I mean, that’s, so, that,

that’s—every angle, every facet of segregation and discrimination in

Philadelphia was protested and fought over the years by the NAACP, but no, they

didn’t get discouraged.

HARDY: What whites were active with the NAACP in the city?

MARTIN: What did you say? What--?

HARDY: What white people were--were there any--?

MARTIN: Yes. You always had, you’ve always had white people. For example, I

know Samuel Fels, the soap manufacturer, was a contributor. There was one man

who was very active, Henry Carter Patterson, who was a Quaker, and he felt so

strongly about it, that he changed his name. His name was Henry Clay Patterson,

but Henry Clay was an advocate of slavery. He changed his middle name to Carter.

(laughs) And he was an outstanding person there. Jacob Billikopf was active. He

was a friend of my father’s, a friend, and there were various others. There

were some Quakers. I know one time Marjorie Penny, of the Fellowship Commission,

helped out in some investigations, (sound of buzzer) and things which they had.

Excuse me.

[Pause in recording.]

HARDY: A huge fight with Amos Scott, and was really virulent in his attacks on

this saloon keeper, who

MARTIN: Well, Amos Scott was a hack politician who did what his bosses told him.

And he would sell his birthright for a mess of potage. But having come from the

South, having been in it—and he was on the national scene, I mean you can look

up and read, if you’ll read some of Booker T. Washington’s papers, and you

will find correspondence about him. He fought the principles of Booker T.

Washington, the separate principles which he espoused, as my father did also.

And, but he was very able, and if he came out strong, he had good reason for it.

But I mean, he was a man of reason. He didn’t just jump off arbitrarily.

HARDY: When did your father succeed him?

MARTIN: I think my father succeeded him about 1920. (sound of buzzer)

HARDY: Hm. Were there any philosophical differences between some of the white

Quaker supporters of the organization and people like [J. Max] Barber or your father?

MARTIN: Well, let me put it this way, if there were differences in their

philosophy, they did not join in the NAACP movement.

HARDY: Yeah, but even within the organization, there had to have been a more

militant group and a group that was more conciliatory, or differences in

philosophies about how to approach issues, or just the disagreements that you

have within any organizations.

MARTIN: Actually, you had no basic differences, because they all had the one

thing in mind. I mean, in other words, you had some who did not participate. We

called them ‘segregationalists.’ They went along. It was to their interests

to go along with the existing thing. For example, a Jim Crow YMCA, certain

separate institutions and organizations. You had those in the school system who

were content to go along, because they felt if they had integration, it might

jeopardize their jobs. And they would not speak out. I know of one occasion when

my father was asked by the Normal School to speak to a group, educational group,

and he spoke about, we need-- we should have complete integration, and one

gentleman, who subsequently became quite well-known for his efforts presumably

for integration, called him to task, and said, “You know, you’re talking,

you’re going to knock us out of our jobs.” I won’t mention his name, but—

HARDY: Oh, I, for the historical record-- [laughter]

MARTIN: No.

HARDY: And it, I mean, it was a very valid position to have, too, I mean. It was

a real, it was a real conundrum. You know, you’re damned if you do, damned if

you don’t.

MARTIN: Well, all right. In other words, the point is, what is your price? That,

that’s what it is. [laughs]

HARDY: Who were the leading proponents of separatism in the city? I know

Reverend [William A.] Credit was active, he was--

MARTIN: Oh, yes. He’s the one that perhaps was most responsible for segregated

schools. In New York, they said, “We want our girls to-- boys to have jobs,

but we don’t want segregated schools.” Here, they compromised, they--“All

right, let them teach only colored children.”

HARDY: And it was a way of ensuring employment for black—

MARTIN: Of employment, but that—

HARDY: Black teachers, who otherwise would have had no jobs.

MARTIN: Right. But in New York, they got the same thing, but they insisted that

they teach anywhere. And if they’d had a little more backbone, they could have

done it here.

HARDY: You think they could have done it in Philadelphia?

MARTIN: Yes, they could. Yeah.

HARDY: They could have forced the mayor, and the ward bosses, and the school

board to integrate against their will?

MARTIN: It could have been done. But I mean, they gave them a crumb. They gave

them a crumb, because they didn’t have the backbone. They just-- that was it.

HARDY: Who were the other leading spokesmen, then, in the city, during that

earlier period, for separate development, or the Washington position, along with Credit?

MARTIN: I would have to, I’d sort of have to review some notes. I want to be

careful about giving any, you know, giving names. But there was a substantial

block, and I would say those who, your school principals, the Negro schools,

your people connected with the YMCA, those who perhaps were head of a segregated

health clinic, generally those who profited personally by segregation.

HARDY: And many of the old-style black politicians, I guess (inaubible).

MARTIN: Well, them, well, they, yes. They would do whatever their masters, they

were their masters’ voice. They listened. And as I say, Dr. Barber felt it was

a disgrace to have a man of the ilk, of those that were appointed to office. I

mean, they, they wouldn’t put a white man of that caliber in that type of office.

HARDY: Did he ever try and get public office in the city?

MARTIN: Oh, no. No, no, no, no. You couldn’t in those days. No, you had to

cater to the bosses. You had to, no he never ran for (inaudible). My father did

not either. I mean, they had no desire. They, and of course, if you got public

office, you’re bought and paid for.

HARDY: So politics was abandoned then. It seems what you’re saying is that

politics was abandoned by the more progressive elements in the black community.

MARTIN: Politics as- [coughs]. They did not abandon politics, but they did not

enter it as, I mean, the legislature, or city council. They did not seek that.

They felt working on those who were there, working on the thing, rather than

trying to get in a position in there. In those days, the boss dictated who went

to the legislature, who went to city council. So, if you got in, your power was

done. They’d given you that, that’s all you get. You don’t speak for

people any more.

HARDY: Hm. I guess the one area in which they did try to achieve a political

base was in the 30th ward, back during the 1920s. I know that the struggle went

on for the whole decade into the early ‘30s, before they finally broke control.

MARTIN: Yes. Yeah.

HARDY: I understand that there were so many competing leaderships, between

Asbury, and Ed Henry, and Dickerson—

MARTIN: That’s right. Yes.

HARDY: And Aus Norris, that they really remained, if they’d been able to

unite, it seems if all the different factions had been able to come together and

say, “Let’s put aside our personal differences and dedicate ourselves to the

central task, which is breaking control of these Irish ward bosses,” they

could have done it 10 years earlier than they did. They had 80 percent of the

population in the 30th ward.

MARTIN: Right.

HARDY: But were never able to, until after the Depression hit, and there were,

you know, the beginning of the Roosevelt era. They weren’t able to gain

control of their own ward.

MARTIN: That’s right.

HARDY: That’s really sort of a tragic story, you know, politically, when you

look back on it.

MARTIN: Of course, you must realize that most of the Negro population had fanned

out in other areas. And that those who were there, I mean, many of the people

who were there, they voted as the bosses told them. Of course, in those days,

get two dollars, or take them up the alley, and give them a drink of liquor.

That was the price of a vote.

HARDY: Any efforts taken by the NAACP to break that pattern of voting?

MARTIN: Well, just to tell them to be intelligent. Yes. No. They, the constant

campaign, ‘vote intelligently.’ ‘Vote intelligently.’

HARDY: How active or effective was the chapter during this early period, the

pre-Roosevelt period, compared to that in other cities? And the other question I

want to ask you is, after that, is, what sort of contact did the Philadelphia

organization have with other cities to be able to compare notes, and see what

was working elsewhere, what wasn’t?

MARTIN: Well, Dr. Barber was on the national board of directors. My father was a

national board of directors. My father went to every convention from 1917 up to

about 1940, and you had regional meetings. And the Philadelphia branch was

considered one of the best in the country during that period. In other words, up

to 1930, it was considered one of the best in the country.

HARDY: Why is that?

MARTIN: Well, the job it did. And the annual report usually would indicate what

different cities did. But generally, the Philadelphia branch always had a very

high rating.

HARDY: Can you tell me how you became active with the local organization?

MARTIN: Well, of course, I grew up in that atmosphere. I mean, when I was a kid,

that’s what I heard. I heard NAACP at the dinner table, I heard it every day,

and so when I came out of college, I just became active. And it so happened that

a very able secretary, Julian St. George White, died very suddenly, and I moved

into the gap to be secretary. The secretary was the one who was really the

administrator. And of course, there was no salary attached to it. But you’re

the one that did the writing, kept the ball rolling, together with the

president, of course. But the secretary was more or less the dynamo.

HARDY: And this was 1930?

MARTIN: Nineteen-thirty, yes.

HARDY: It’s about that time that—

MARTIN: Thirty—let’s see, I, I became, no, it was about 1933, ’33 or ’34.

HARDY: Okay. So you’d been out of college?

MARTIN: About 1934. Yeah, been, just come out of college.

HARDY: A couple of years.

MARTIN: Yeah, 1934. Yeah. Um-hm.

HARDY: It seemed that, in most places, between the ‘20s and the ‘30s,

that’s an era when there’s a change of leadership, change of philosophy and

approach, just because of the onset of the Depression. How did the Depression

change the attitudes of the people associated with the NAACP in the city?

MARTIN: Well, I don’t think it changed the attitudes. With the Depression, I

think everybody was concerned with self-preservation. In other words, putting

some food on the table, making a living (laughter). My father stepped down in

1930, and he turned over the reins to Herbert E. Millen, who later became a

judge. And he was active. And he remained on the national board, and he was also

on the national Executive Committee, for about four years. He went over every

two weeks to a meeting over in New York, on that. But I would say there was no

material change, except you had to spend a little more time on your own interests.

HARDY: Hm. There wasn’t an increase in militance during the ‘30s?

MARTIN: Well, let me put it this way, the NAACP had always been militant. And

rhetoric, militant rhetoric is one thing, but militant action is something else.

And the NAACP had always had militant action. Now, of course, you had others

that did a lot of talking. National Negro Congress: they did a lot. They talked

a lot, but it didn’t do anything. And the ones that did it, the NAACP did it.

HARDY: Okay. When you came on as secretary, did you have a personal agenda that

you wanted to pursue? Different from that that was already in play?

MARTIN: I would say no, because, I mean, it’s pretty much clear, you do what

you can just to knock it out: segregation, discrimination, wherever it exists.

HARDY: Hm. Okay. Tell me the story then of what, if you can, of what led up to

the equal rights legislation bill in ’37, how that all came about.

MARTIN: Well, for years, we’d been working and working on it. And finally,

went up to Harrisburg, and we just put the pressure by it, and finally, we were

able to get it through. There was a change of administration. I’m trying to

think who was the governor then, but just constant, constant pressure that

finally paid off. I mean, there was no miracle, or something happened that year,

but that was just an idea whose time had come. And after all, it had been, I

guess, about 20 years in the building. It had been up in the legislature. And,

of course, we had laws on the books, but which were ineffective, and they were

never enforced.

HARDY: So what was this bill supposed to redress? What was written into it that—

MARTIN: Well, in other words, it was patterned after the New York act, which was

really foolproof. It had been tested. Discrimination in hotels, restaurants,

theaters, and places of public accommodation.

HARDY: There were provisions for fines?

MARTIN: Oh yes, yes, yes, yes. But, yes. It had teeth in it.

HARDY: Hm. So once it was passed, what were the expectations? Before it was

passed, what were the expectations of what would happen when it was finally in place?

MARTIN: Well, that when you wanted to avail yourself of a facility, you could.

And I remember the first day I wrote an article for The Crisis, I think it was

in 1937, on what happened on the first day, and the hotel owners all over the

state were all braced for what was going to happen, and nothing happened. I

mean, nobody came to test the act, because it just happened nobody at that

particular time wanted to. I mean, they had the need of a hotel accommodation.

And gradually, it opened up. I mean I went to conventions, business conventions,

and it meant that whereas before I might have received a brush-off, I was accommodated.

HARDY: Did you all make plans in advance? Were there preparations to test the

act once it was\--

MARTIN: No, there were no advance preparations to test. We just thought of

something, let it happen, what happens happened naturally. When a person wants

to do it, but not a particular test.

HARDY: Hm. So what impact did it have\--

MARTIN: Well, no. There were tests after that. But I mean, we didn’t say on

this day, why, we’re going to do so-and-so. But it meant that in due course,

people went in, and that was that. But I mean, there was no concerted effort.

That’s what I’m trying to say.

HARDY: Okay. Because I know during the, was that before the passage of the bill

when the inter-racial council got together—

MARTIN: Um-hm.

HARDY: And young black and white groups would go into theaters, and restaurants—

MARTIN: Right.

HARDY: And really attempt to force confrontations to—

MARTIN: Right.

HARDY: Can you tell me a bit about that whole movement?

MARTIN: Well, there was the movement to break it down. The question is how far

it got, but it was good. It indicated what people want. But actually, unless you

have the law behind you, you can’t get too far. Once you have a law, then

sentiment will mold towards that.

HARDY: Were there any movers and shakers behind that effort in the mid-‘30s? I

know my impression is that Raymond Pace Alexander was one of the leaders in

bringing those test cases.

MARTIN: Mm. Mm.

HARDY: The Quaker Inter-Racial Fellowship.

MARTIN: Well, yes. I would say Raymond Alexander was not too much of a mover,

and he would come into it. I mean, he was on our legal committee. Most of our

lawyers, E. Washington Rhodes was on the committee, Austin Norris, and others.

But I would say he was not particularly a, he would take a case as a lawyer, but

the others were the ones—there was a group, a younger group of, as I say,

Quakers and some who sympathized with them.

HARDY: So who in the black community were leaders behind that?

MARTIN: At this point, I just can’t remember.

HARDY: Can’t remember the names?

MARTIN: I mean, I just can’t remember. Um-hm.

HARDY: Right. Right. Okay, now, when you went into that theater in ’34—

MARTIN: Um-hm.

HARDY: Was that part of this—

MARTIN: That was a test case.

HARDY: That was part, that was part of the equal--

MARTIN: No, wait a minute. Now let’s see. No, this was under the old law.

HARDY: Right.

MARTIN: This was under the old law.

HARDY: Right.

MARTIN: No, that was a test case.

HARDY: What was the background of that? Did you just decide on the spur of the

moment to do this, or did you have any meetings?

MARTIN: Well, no. We had had complaints about it. So what happened is, I went

in, asked, they wanted me to go upstairs, and we had another one, Caucasian,

came in, was with me. He went up, so we took out a warrant for him, for the

manager, under the old act. And it came up. It was knocked out when it went

before the grand jury. They- the grand jury did not indict, but knowing what

happens in the political scene, now, I can understand what happened. The Stanley

Company, which owned most of the theaters, it was a very substantial chain, and

I regret to say that the head was, it was owned by a Jewish group, and that’s

the head of it—hell, well, I’ll tell you the head was William Goldman, who

later became a member of the Board of Education. Yeah. William Goldman. Came

here from St. Louis. Jacob Billikopf wrote him a letter, said, “My heart

bleeds when I think of what’s happened here to my friend’s son, and when I

think of what happens to our people over in Germany today.” Not one mumbling

word came back from Mr. Goldman. (laughter)

HARDY: Huh.

MARTIN: However, it shook him up, because the fellow was down there, the manager

was down, and they just stopped. I mean that broke it up.

HARDY: The policy did end?

MARTIN: The policy changed, yeah. After they hauled the man into court, because—

HARDY: I mean, this is still before the passage of the new bill.

MARTIN: That was before the passage, yeah. That was before the passage, yeah.

HARDY: Hm. Were you involved in the lobbying efforts in Harrisburg?

MARTIN: I would say we made, our committees made presentations. I was not too

active. We had a legal committee that pretty much handled that.

HARDY: And so the legal committee went to Harrisburg--

MARTIN: They would be the ones to go to Harrisburg. Right.

HARDY: In charge of that.

MARTIN: Um-hm.

HARDY: Why was Hobson Reynolds chosen to introduce the bill? Any idea?

MARTIN: No. Well, Hobson was an undertaker, and he was perhaps a little more

independent than some of the other members of the legislature. He was in the

North Philadelphia district. He was very prominent in the Elks. And I would

guess he would do it on his own, whereas the others would have to ask their

masters what to do.

HARDY: Hm. So he was more independent than the other men in the legislature at

the time.

MARTIN: Yeah, yes, to an extent. I mean, as a businessman, he could be. He, you

see, these other boys generally had jobs. If you have a job, and of course, the

legislature got very small pay then. I think they got about $1,800 a year. So

they have to have another job to, I mean, a major means of livelihood.

HARDY: Do you know if before the introduction of the bill, the organization

worked with him, counseled him, prepped him?

MARTIN: Yeah, we did. I mean, we talked with him, and told him this is the bill

we want. We got the bill from New York, the NAACP in New York said this is the

bill we want.

HARDY: Okay, so, the form of the bill came down from the national organization

in New York?

MARTIN: That’s right.

HARDY: Huh. And they recommended this has worked in New York?

MARTIN: Well, it is, yeah. It’s a New York bill, which is a very, very

time-tested statute.

HARDY: Right. Did it change anything?

MARTIN: Yes, because, I mean, you had the right. I mean, you bring one suit—

HARDY: But having the right in, you know, on the books, and having the right in

practice are two different things.

MARTIN: Well, a few suits were brought, and about—number one, when there’s

an act there, people, you know, it puts them on their guard. And sure, there

were some cases of it, and in some cases, people said, “Well, are you aware

this is so-and-so?” And then the people would, they’d go into a restaurant,

and they’d say, you know, they’d, all right, they’d serve them. And the

same thing as far as the hotels.

HARDY: So you feel that it really did have an impact.

MARTIN: Oh my, it was an, no, it did. It definitely did. No, it did. Um-hm.

HARDY: Right. Because I’ve spoken to some people, and you know, tried to ask

them about the activities in the ‘30s that—

MARTIN: Um-hm.

HARDY: That the test cases, the going to the restaurants, the Civil Rights Act

of ’37, and they say, “Yeah, but none of that had any impact. Nothing

changed until the Civil Rights Movement, really.”

MARTIN: Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. No, it changed. You could—un-uhn. Any,

well, let me put it this way, your segregation became, discrimination became

very, very subtle and was not outright. They didn’t want to, you know, if you

had an open-shut case, you got service.

HARDY: Hm. Hm. Why did you choose the--change over to [ ]. I’m going to be

running short of time. I’m sure you’ve got some appointments soon.

MARTIN: Sure. Um-hm.

HARDY: Why did you choose the University of Pennsylvania?

MARTIN: A good college, and it was home, I could live at home. Things were

getting a little tough financially, and, well, I’d always wanted to go to the

University of Pennsylvania. I mean, its reputation. I’d always wanted to go

to the Wharton School. I mean, it was the leading school of business in the

country, and then, as I say, the added fact that it was home, so I wouldn’t

put my parents to the additional costs of board and lodging. So happened I lived

within walking distance of it, so— (laughs)

HARDY: That helped.

MARTIN: That really helped. Um-hm.

HARDY: Did you have any problems getting in, being a black man?

MARTIN: No. I went down, I was in the class, went down, took the entrance exam,

and around July, I got the notice, “You’ve been selected for admissions.”

That was it.

HARDY: Nothing to it.

MARTIN: No. Uh-uhn.

HARDY: Huh. How many other blacks were in your class? Any idea?

MARTIN: I would say we had maybe three out of maybe 500. I don’t know what

it was, but, I mean, there were not too many.

HARDY: Hm. And what was it like then, being one of three blacks in a class of 500?

MARTIN: Well, actually, the way you’re broken down, I was not in a class with

any of them. They were in different—in the Wharton School, I was the only one

in the Wharton School. The others were in the college. And I would say life went

along. I mean, it was nothing, we went to class, you had some friends in class,

and you studied your stuff, if you made the grades, you got them, and I had no

particular problems. Some fellows in the class you became very friendly with,

others, we just did not. I mean, no particular reason. And I had no complaints

about any of the faculty members.

HARDY: So basically was a—

MARTIN: Was just a—

HARDY: Treated as an equal.

MARTIN: Yeah, I had no—

HARDY: There was no visible-- or no discrimination.

MARTIN: No, no visible discrimination or differentiation.

HARDY: Right. What did you want to be? What were your ambitions?

MARTIN: Well, I was interested in the real estate business.

HARDY: You were?

MARTIN: Yeah. Um-hm. Yeah. And then, what happened is, the Depression came on,

and I switched over to accounting, because the real estate business was flat.

But I followed what I’d always wanted to be, because I was interested in

getting, continuing my father’s business.

HARDY: Hm. Gee, there’s nothing there. I thought there’d be a lot to talk

about then.

MARTIN: No. (laughter)

HARDY: Well, let’s see. We’ve got a couple of minutes left. I think I’ll

pursue a—let’s talk about, I guess, one of the traditions of Philadelphia is

the buildings and loans.

MARTIN: Um-hm.

HARDY: And what role did they play in, I guess, one of the interviews I did, I

think it was one of the programs was with the Hillians, who said the reason

they chose Philadelphia over New York was because in Philadelphia, with the row

house architecture, they could afford to buy their own home, and that meant a

great deal to them, coming to the South.

MARTIN: That’s right. Yeah. Yeah.

HARDY: And I guess, the only way that was possible was through the many building

and loan associations in the city. Can you tell me a bit about this and the

background of it?

MARTIN: All right. They grew up around the neighborhoods, around the churches,

fraternal organizations. And in those days, when you wanted a mortgage, you’d

get, usually, you got two mortgages. You’d go to a bank and get a first

mortgage, for about 50 percent of the value, and you’d go to a building and

loan and get a mortgage for the other 30 percent. And practically all of your

building and loans were community organizations. Some cases, you could get the

whole loan from them. But because of row houses, housing was cheap, and you were

dealing with people who knew you, your peers, I mean, people in the neighborhood

of where the house was. And it helped. I mean, Philadelphia’s quite unusual,

because you, you had a large number of building and loans. You had, at one time,

you had over 1000. Now you’re down to, I think, less than 100, through mergers

and whatnot. But there were neighborhood associations, neighborhood

organizations, they were part-time affairs, most of them, and their officers got

part-time salaries, and they made it easy for people to buy. And the-- at one

time, we had about 20 Negro-managed associations.

HARDY: Can you tell me a bit about those?

MARTIN: Well, yes. They were small. The small ones, they performed a good function.

[Pause in recording.]

MARTIN: A hundred and twenty, 130 percent. I know my father was secretary of

one, Saint Mark’s Building and Loan. It paid about 140 percent. But then they

woke up, and banking department realized that they were working themselves out

of a job, that they would have nothing to examine, and they eased up on their

policies. By that time, a lot of them had gone down the drain. Not down the

drain, but, I mean, they had liquidated. But they really performed an excellent

function. Of the minority, of- Green is the only one that remains.

HARDY: And I guess Berean was one of the first?

MARTIN: It was the oldest.

HARDY: It was the oldest.

MARTIN: Well, it’s the oldest. It’s the second-oldest. The other one went

out of existence before 1900. But it’s 1888. It will be 100 years old next year.

HARDY: Did the black building and loans work any differently than their counterparts?

MARTIN: No. Except they did not discriminate in loans. You know, you could get a

loan from a white building and loan, as long as you’re buying in a Negro

neighborhood. You ran into a problem only when you wanted to go and be the first

one in a so-called white neighborhood.

HARDY: Ah. So then the black buildings and loans played an important role.

MARTIN: They played an important part in breaking, in getting new areas. Yeah.

HARDY: Because you have to one of them to get the financing.

MARTIN: That’s right. Yeah.

HARDY: Another thing I’m wondering about in the area of business was the, you

know, during this period when people are coming up from the South, and the

population’s growing— providing the base upon which black businesses could

grow, you know, population. Was your father involved as a realtor, or active

with different organizations in the city in the attempts at that time by The

Tribune, and the banks, and other businessmen to encourage people to buy black,

to support their own?

MARTIN: Yes, yes, he always was. He was always. Um-hm.

HARDY: Can you tell me a bit about that?

MARTIN: Well, he always made a practice just to encourage, I mean, we deal with

each other, we build up our economy. And he tried to throw his business where he

could towards that source, and encourage his customers to do the same.

HARDY: Who were their leaders behind that movement? Were there any people who

really were noted for that?

MARTIN: No, I think it was a general thing. I mean, there were a number of people.

HARDY: Hm. How successful were they?

MARTIN: Well, it helped. It helped.

HARDY: What was the biggest problems they had, or obstacles they had to overcome?

MARTIN: Well, I think the biggest problem was that people had been brainwashed

to feel that they didn’t have the ability, that people of their race didn’t

have the ability to handle their business affairs as well as the, the white man.

And that was particularly true of the Old Philadelphian, who, who’d been

lulled into complacency here. He got nothing, but he felt the white man was wonderful.

HARDY: Yeah, you’re one of the people coming down hard on the Old

Philadelphians, now. (laughter)

MARTIN: Well, unfortunately, they had many advantages, and they didn’t take

it, they did not take, do the most, make the most of their opportunities.

HARDY: Hm. What would be the greatest strengths of that Old Philadelphia

society? Is there anything that distinguished it in your opinion?

MARTIN: Well, of course, they had a pride, their family prides, and so forth.

But I don’t know. I would say they were not too progressive, and that is

something that’s true of all Philadelphians, white and colored. Philadelphia,

see, in other words, Philadelphia has really done something in the last 25

years, when we’ve had an influx of people from other, new blood.

HARDY: Yeah. I think of it as, probably, they just took on the characteristics

of the native--

MARTIN: Well, that’s right. Yes. That is correct. Yeah. That’s it. Yeah.

HARDY: Which was just stultifyingly conservative and elitist. (laughs)

MARTIN: That’s right. Yeah. That’s it. Yeah.

HARDY: Yeah. They on the other hand talk about their educational achievements,

and the number of professionals they’ve produced, and—

MARTIN: Well, unfortunately, with the opportunities which were at hand in

Philadelphia, they did not take advantage of them. You had Penn, you had Temple,

you had Philadelphia College of Pharmacy. I mean, all, Philadelphia Normal

School, the old Philadelphia School of Pedagogy, where you get a free education.

They didn’t take advantage of it. You know, relatively few native

Philadelphians who took advantage of the education.

HARDY: Hm. What did they do?

MARTIN: They lived in the past. (laughs) My family’s been here for so many

years, and so forth. They’d have little cliques and all. They were just so satisfied.

HARDY: Hm. That’s another question I had. What impact do you think they,

I’m wondering during this period in the –teens and the ‘20s, they were the

indigenous population. Did they really have a determining voice in what took

place then, or were they a small group off to the side that stayed to

themselves, and really didn’t influence the patterns of development for—

MARTIN: Well, no. They influenced. You know, they came in. There was mixing.

There was a mixture.

HARDY: Did they play an important part with the NAACP, or Urban League, or

businesses, or—

MARTIN: Some did, but many of them did not. In other words, they were

complacent. And they didn’t get involved too much.

HARDY: Would you say this is characteristic of the old black populations in

other Northern cities as well, or is this—

MARTIN: No. No, I don’t think so. Philadelphia’s in a class by itself.

HARDY: You really believe Philly—

MARTIN: Yeah. My father said, “If anybody can make it in Philadelphia, you’d

be a well beater anywhere else.” So many people have come here who are good.

They didn’t appreciate them in Philadelphia. They lived in the past.

Ministers, YMCA people, business people, uh-uhn. They were just dead.

HARDY: Huh. That’s interesting. What did your father say now? He said—

MARTIN: He said, “If anybody can make it in Philadelphia, they’d be a well

beater anywhere else.”

HARDY: Why?

MARTIN: If they made it here, they had outstanding talent. They’d just get by

here. But anywhere else, they would be highly recognized. In other words,

Philadelphia is just a hard town.

HARDY: Huh. Hard town?

MARTIN: I mean, hard for a newcomer, hard place for a newcomer. It’s just a

hard town to make good in. And the people don’t stick together the way they do

in other countries, and other cities. It’s lack of cohesiveness, or has been.

HARDY: And your father, and you could say this thing from memory?

MARTIN: Oh, yeah, I experienced it over the years. Yes. He said different ones,

and then he mentioned different ones who have come.

HARDY: Hm. Did he use any examples, or can you give me some examples of some of

the people who—

MARTIN: We’ve had ministers. We had William Lloyd Imes came here as a

Presbyterian minister. He wound up as president of Knoxville College, and pastor

of a large church there. We’ve had YMCA people who’ve come here. They

weren’t satisfied with them. They went somewhere else, and nationally known.

Educators couldn’t make it here. They went somewhere else, they were highly recognized.

HARDY: They’d come to Philadelphia, see, pass through, and then they’d head

on out. They had [ ] in Philly. I guess, in Allan Ballard’s book, he talks

about even some of the sons of the Old Philadelphians, they just felt that their

hometown was so stifling—

MARTIN: Um-hm.

HARDY: That the only way they could get, I guess the classic example is Tanner.

MARTIN: Yeah.

HARDY: When, when abroad, but—

MARTIN: That’s right.

HARDY: And also Alain Locke. I’m trying to think who had mentioned her.

MARTIN: Well, Alain Lock, what can you do here? A month taking human education

was teaching a grammar school. (laughter) Looks like my time is about running out.

HARDY: Okay.

MARTIN: But we’ve about covered—

HARDY: Yeah. Yeah. I’d say—

MARTIN: Pretty, pretty good day?

HARDY: Yeah. Covered a lot of ground.

MARTIN: Okay.

[End of interview.]