Standing up in Congress

There was a time when our elected officials didn't cower in fear at the thought of having to campaign harder to retain their own jobs.

Rep. Hale Boggs and President Lyndon B. Johnson in 1968. (White House photo)

By Elaine Weiss

For the past six months, we've watched the Republican majority in Congress relinquish the constitutional powers and responsibilities of the House and Senate, pandering to the outrageous demands of the Trump White House. The R-suffix solons have proved quite willing to endanger the safety and well-being of the nation, including their constituents, to protect their own thin skins and cushy seats. They swiftly cave under threats from a vengeful president to unleash a MAGA primary challenger against them should they question or dissent in any way. These elected officials don't seem bothered by the Trump administration's heedless dismantling of the civil service, with tens of thousands of dedicated public servants losing their careers and livelihoods, but they cower in fear at the thought of having to campaign harder to retain their own jobs.

This summer, the craven capitulation of congressional Republicans has been on vivid display as the administration's big bill of billionaire tax breaks and disastrous spending cuts was rammed through both chambers. A few timid murmurs of "concern" squeaked from the throats of some GOPers in competitive districts, but most just surrendered at roll call.

Sen. Thom Tillis (R-N.C.) won a news-cycle's worth of attention for his speech on the Senate floor in late June, denouncing the bill's slashing of Medicaid (he liked everything else about the bill). But Tillis gave his oration only after announcing he would not run for re-election next year; President Donald Trump had threatened a MAGA primary opponent. Rather than face Trump's wrath, Tillis called it quits. To his credit, Tillis was one of only three Republican senators to vote against the bill, but, honestly, he had little left to lose. Not exactly a contender for a chapter in John F. Kennedy's “Profiles in Courage,” the former president’s 1955 Pulitzer-Prize-winning book about U.S. senators who took principled but unpopular stands, risking their political careers. One congressman who missed the deadline for inclusion by a decade, though, deserves attention now.

Sixty years ago, in the summer of 1965, Congress was grappling with another highly contentious bill: the Voting Rights Act. Rep. Hale Boggs of Louisiana, a rising star in the Democratic-majority House, faced a stark choice: protect his seat or vote his conscience. Unlike Tillis, he had a lot to lose.

From the time he was elected to Congress in 1940 at age 26, Boggs had managed a tricky balancing act as a Southern Democrat but a relative moderate in matters of racial policy. He was not always able to maintain his equilibrium.

He'd earned the support of his Black constituents and the New Orleans Black political establishment by his advocacy of fairer treatment and beneficial economic and social programs. He denounced the "race-baiting" tactics of his fellow Southern politicians and refused to use the denigrating racial slurs common in policy debates.

Yet he was also ambitious and politically calculating. Despite any qualms he might have harbored, in 1956 Boggs signed the "Southern Manifesto" with over a hundred other members of Congress, vowing "massive resistance" to the U.S. Supreme Court's Brown v. Board of Education decision desegregating public schools. And he voted against the Civil Rights Acts of 1957, 1960, and 1964.

But compared with the rabid segregationist Dixiecrats of his party—Strom Thurmond, Harry Byrd, James Eastland, Richard Russell—Boggs could be considered a closet liberal. His private support of racial tolerance was considered downright traitorous by some in his state—endangering "the Southern way of life." They labeled him a communist.

As the civil rights movement gained strength across the south in the early 1960s, Boggs felt increased pressure to act more sincerely on his convictions, stepping up his denunciations of white violence and intimidation tactics. He called the movement's non-violent demands for equality and full rights of citizenship morally correct and necessary, though he favored a go-slow approach. He applauded the Rev. Martin Luther King's March on Washington in August 1963 as "a great exercise in Americanism."

For this Boggs was booed by white audiences; he received death threats, and the KKK burned a cross on his lawn. In 1962 and 1964, he faced stiff Democratic primary opposition from well-funded, white supremacist challengers. In the 1964 general election, Boggs faced a right-wing Republican candidate who had joined segregationist groups. The district's Black voters helped Boggs squeak through.

Boggs was in a precarious position as the voting rights bill made its way through Congress in the spring and summer of 1965. President Lyndon B. Johnson had submitted the legislation to Congress in mid-March, days after the savage beating of voting rights demonstrators on the Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama. "I speak tonight for the dignity of man and destiny of Democracy," LBJ told the nation in a televised speech announcing the new legislation. As usual, the bill was subjected to Southern-bloc delay-and-destroy tactics, but there was little patience for the filibuster theatrics of past civil rights debates. The Senate passed its version of the bill at the end of May, but by early July the House was still struggling.

As majority whip, it was Boggs' job to round up enough votes for House passage of the landmark legislation. But he had much to lose by publicly repudiating a central pillar of Southern white hegemony, maintained by mechanisms denying Black citizens their right to vote. Boggs would be courting danger, and possible punishment, from his white constituents, his state party, and his Dixiecrat colleagues in Congress if he came out in vocal support of a national voting rights bill.

Nevertheless, Boggs had quietly decided he was going to vote for this bill, breaking with his custom of playing it safe. He'd considered voting for the 1964 Civil Rights Act, but his campaign manager talked him out of it. Now, Boggs was emboldened: There was something essential about the right to vote, the core of democracy, that he couldn't rationalize or deny.

He was also getting an earful at home about the bill from his family; his wife, his mother in-law, and his daughters were all trying to convince him to take a more public stand in support of the voting rights bill.

The night before final House debate, "we were all badgering Hale on the fact that he had to make a speech for the bill the next day," his wife, Lindy Boggs, recalled. "And he was trying to quiet us, and he said, ‘Well, I'm going to vote for it, and that's about all that I can do. You can't push me into making a speech.’" Lindy Boggs was so disappointed by her husband's refusal that she did not attend the final debate.

The debate dragged on late into the night of July 9, and Hale Boggs listened as another of his Louisiana colleagues rose to make a final assault on the bill, claiming that Black people could vote freely in his state, that there was no restriction or intimidation, and that there was no need for federal interference. Boggs knew this was a lie. Something snapped. He marched to the front of the chamber and took the floor.

"I wish I could stand here as a man who loves my state, who loves the South ... and say there has not been discrimination," Boggs began, with all eyes on him. "Unfortunately, it is not so."

Boggs refuted the rationales and excuses made by his Southern colleagues; he knew that besides the notorious literacy tests, trick questions, and "moral character" evaluations imposed on Black voters in his state, they also often faced job firings, eviction, and economic ruin—as well as physical violence—if they dared try to register. "Can we say there has been no discrimination? Can we honestly say that from our hearts?"

Boggs announced that he would support the bill: "Because I believe the fundamental right to vote must be a part of this great experiment in human progress under freedom, which America is."

Boggs received a standing ovation as he returned to his seat, and the galleries erupted in cheers. The House passed its version of the bill that night, with 22 southern Democrats voting “aye” with Boggs.

Northern newspaper editorials across the nation praised Boggs' speech for its honesty and courage. His words—and his affirmative vote—raised his stature in the national Democratic Party, but it was still too early to discern whether his political future in Louisiana was viable. It was still a gamble.

Boggs did win re-election in 1966—helped again by Black voters—and was returned to Congress in subsequent elections, ascending to the majority leader, until he died in an airplane crash in Alaska in October 1972. His wife was elected to his seat and served for nine terms. Their daughter, Cokie Boggs Roberts, became a distinguished journalist covering Congress and the White House for NPR and network television.

A day after Rep. Hale Boggs’ speech and the House's passage, The Washington Post carried an editorial headlined "Historic Occasion," noting that in a meaningful coincidence, on the very same night the House was approving the Voting Rights bill, the Senate was busy passing one of Johnson's signature Great Society measures, creating Medicaid and Medicare.

These legislative measures "are significantly related," said the Post editorial. "Both are reflections of a growing social conscience in the Nation."

Six decades later, as the Trump White House and Republican Congress are working to kill or cripple both the Voting Rights Act and Medicaid—and our nation's social conscience appears feeble—it's good to be reminded of a time when members of Congress were willing to stand up for democracy and the Constitution—and brave the consequences—beyond sporting a flag lapel pin. We need a Hale Boggs stand-up moment right now.

Elaine Weiss' most recent book is “Spell Freedom: The Underground Schools that Built the Civil Rights Movement.”

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