tormented by the ease with which henbroke into the inner circle of the whitenelite—parties at LiUian Hellman’s and atnLeonard Bernstein’s digs—and by thendistance this put between him and hisnrace. Roger Wilkins’s life appears, tonhave been one long ingratiating, integratednsoiree, with him as the only iQtegrator.nHe recounts this nightmare overnand over: at the Gridiron Club watchingnRichard and Spiro play minstrel songs, atna Fourth of July fireworks display innnorthwest Washington with five thousandnwhite faces, being chosen by thenFord Foundation to integrate the HarmonynClub, New York’s Gerrqan Jewishnstronghold. Grueling.nRoger’s book is the more interesting,nand depressing, of the two. Roy’s autobiographynis worthwhile, especially fornanyone interested in how an organizationnlike the N.A.A.C.P. (founded bynwhites) grew into a national power. As ancondensed history of the civil-rightsnmovement in America from 1920-1970nit is valuable. But it doesn’t providenmuch about Roy Wilkins: he is a journalistnand his book is straight journalism.nEverything is seen in the light of the delicatenpolitics of race; there are few redeemingnwhite folks and scores of bigots.nIncidents of unfairness and nastiness arencompounded to illustrate the way thingsnreally were, from the Ossian Sweet Casento the Scottsboro Nine to the PackardnStrike to the Algiers Motel. ThurgoodnMarshall, Walter White, and W.E.B.nDuBois take on heroic proportions, andnwell they might.nAt is odd how litde of Martin LuthernKing appears in either book. That isnperhaps because both Roy and RogernWilkins wisely avoided the front lines.nRoy saw Stokely Carmichael and H. RapnBrown as the shades of Marcus Garveyncome to Jim Crow the black movementnback into separatism. He comments onnthe generation gap he noticed betweennhimself and the activists, who refiisednhis request that they observe a day ofnrest to let Luci Baines Johnson be wed innpeace, saying:nYou have displayed more backbone inndefending Luci than you liave shownnfor the miUions of black people beingnbrutalized every day in the United’nStates. You have displayed more backbonenin defending Luci than you havenshown for the colored people of Vietnamnbeing napalmed by Luci’s fether.nThat was the rhetoric of the 60’s, and thensoldiers of the so-called Student NonviolentnCoordinating Committee did notnappreciate the compliment being paidnthem by a wizened general who thoughtnthat they could understand the elementnof decorum and respect he recommendednto them. Roy Wilkins knew what thencommunists wanted out of the blacknrace, and he never forgave them fornchoosing his people as martyrs for theninfernal dialectic. His life had a singlenpurpose: to guarantee that all people bentreated alike under the law. It was annoble purpose, and we can thank RoynWilkins for helping to keep open thenmiddle course between black and whitenextremism so that this necessary reconstructionncould be accomplished.niCoger Wilkins’s story is moreninteresting. Roger Wilkins’s single concern,nby his own admission, was RogernWilkins. His book is an apology to hisntwo children for the time he spent awaynfrom them building his career, first withnthe Agency for International Development,nthen with the Justice Department,nthen the Community Relations Service,nthe Ford Foundation, the WashingtonnPost, the New York Times, and finallynthe Washington Star. His life is a conscientiousnattempt to do things on hisnown, to get to the point where people nonlonger call him Roy Wilkins, or mistakennnhim for Julian Bond. He isn’t there yet.nOne tiresome aspect of the book, fornwhich he has no apology, is his disastrousnsex life. Phil Donahue blames his own divorcenon the Roman Catholic Church’sndeluding him into taking his spouse forngranted, as if separations had never occurrednin that congregation before. RogernWilkins blames America for teachingnhim to lust after white women but setdenfor a black wife. He does apologize fornthe mahogany walls in his Ford Foundationnoffice, for the weekend jaunts tonJamaica and Martinique, where he is torturednin spirit and finds it necessary ton”get into” his West Indian servants, gainntheir acceptance, before he can benhappy. Taking a white mistress alongndoesn’t help. Roger Wilkins’s whole lifenis a case of “There but for the Grace ofnGod”—only he doesn’t believe in God.nHe does confess to being a Christian innhis “marrow” and is obliged to hisnpreacher-grandfather for his vestigalnsense of fairness. But when the Jamaicannbartender kindly adds his tab to somenanonymous white man’s bill, it is antriumph of acceptance; I don’t thinknRoger Wilkins accepts the notion thatnsuch accounts are also audited by anhigher authority.nRoger Wilkins’s book is litde morenthan a collection of compliments fromnimportant people and an account of hisnminor, very minor, victories for his racen—^first black assistant attorney general,nfirst black editorial board member of thenPost, first high-level black in the FordnFoundation. Every establishment henworked for contains enough racism fornhim to blow up about. The WashingtonnPost and the New York Times both feltnhis lash when he helped blacks sue fornequal employment opportunities, evennwhen it meant breaking the protocol onneditorial people mixing in newsroomnpolitics and turning on Katherine Grahamnand all those nice, forgiving, erminednassociates.nThis autobiography is interestingnbecause Wilkins lets us in on himself; heneven loathes himself, which may be innvogue now. He doesn’t blame everythingnJune 1983n