by Maya Angelou
CHAPTER 5
On opening night, customers took every seat in the cavernous Village Gate. The Harlem Writers Guild members, their families and friends had arrived, and after wishing me luck, took seats near the stage. I imagined them, after the house lights dimmed, taking copious and critical notes in the dark. John and Grace Killens filled tables with their famous friends. Sidney and Juanita Poitier and Danny Barajanos, Lorraine Hansberry, Bob Nemiroff, Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee, an editor from the Amsterdam News, New York’s black newspaper, a Brooklyn lawyer and a few politicians from Harlem.
Backstage the cast assembled, nervous over the presence of celebrities and excited with the expected opening night jitters. Bayard Rustin spoke to the performers in his tight, clipped voice, explaining the importance of the project and thanking them for their art and generosity. Godfrey made jokes about the opportunity to work, to be paid, and to do some good, all at the same time. I quoted Martin Luther King, “Truth dashed to earth shall rise again,” and then Hugh Hurd asked us to leave so that he could give his cast a last-minute pep talk.
The show began and the performers, illuminated with the spirit, hit the stage and blazed. Comfortable with the material of their own routines, comedians made the audience howl with pleasure and singers delighted the listeners with familiar romantic songs. The revue, which is what the show had become, moved quickly until a scene from Langston Hughes’s The Emperor of Haiti brought the first note of seriousness. Hugh Hurd, playing the title role, reminded us all that although as black people we had a dignity and a love of life, those qualities had to be defended constantly.
Orson Bean, the only white actor in the cast, shuffled up to the microphone and began what at first seemed a rambling remembrance. In minutes, the audience caught his point and laughed in appreciation. Leontyne Watts sang a cappella, “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” and everyone knew that the words meant that oppression had made orphans of black Americans and forced us to live as misfits in the very land we had helped to build.
The entire cast stood in a straight line and sang “Lift every voice and sing …”
The audience stood in support and respect. Those who knew the lyrics joined in, building and filling the air with the song often called “The Negro National Anthem.”
After the third bow, Godfrey hugged me and whispered, “We’ve got a hit. A hit, damn, a hit.”
Hugh Hurd said, “He’s standing up out there.”
Godfrey said, “Hell, man, everybody who’s got feet is standing up.”
Hugh said, “Aw, man. I know that. I mean Sidney. Sidney Poitier is standing up on the table.” A few of us rushed to the sidelines, but were unable to see through the crush of people still crowding toward the stage.
The next afternoon, Levison, Godfrey, Hugh, Jack Murray and I met in Art D’Lugoff’s office. We sat tall on the dilapidated chairs, proud of the success of Cabaret for Freedom.
Art said that not only could we use his night club without charge for five weeks, he would make his mailing list available. Stanley accepted the offer but said unfortunately there was no one in the SCLC office to take advantage of it. The small paid staff was swamped with organizational work, sending out direct-mail appeals, and promoting appearances of visiting Southern ministers. That was unfortunate because the mailing list included people out in Long Island and up in New Rochelle. People who wouldn’t ordinarily hear of our revue, but who would support it and maybe even make contributions to SCLC if they could be contacted. Godfrey, Hugh and I looked at each other. Three white men were willing to lay themselves out for our cause and all I was ready to do was sing and dance, or at best, encourage others to sing and dance. The situation was too historic for my taste. My people had used music to soothe slavery’s torment or to propitiate God, or to describe the sweetness of love and the distress of lovelessness, but I knew no race could sing and dance its way to freedom.
“I’ll take care of it.” I spoke with authority.
Stanley allowed a little surprise into his voice. “Are you volunteering? We can’t afford to pay a salary, you know.”
Hugh said, “I’ll help any way I can.” He understood that we just couldn’t let the white men be the only contributors.
Godfrey smiled. “And, you know, me too.”
Jack said, “You’ll have to draft a release and you can type it on stencils. We’ve got a mimeograph machine in the office.”
Stanley continued, “We can provide paper and envelopes, but you’ll have to address the envelopes by hand. Some of the money you’ve already made can be used for postage. We can’t use the franking machine for your project, I’m sorry, but we’ll be glad to help you.”
I had no idea of how to work a mimeograph machine, nor did I know what a stencil or franker was. The only thing I had understood, and which I knew I could do was address envelopes by hand. Again, and as damn usual, I had opened my mouth a little too wide.
Art shook hands and told me to pick up the mailing list the next day at a midtown address.
Outside in the afternoon sunshine, Stanley and Jack thanked us all again, and said they’d see me the next day. They hailed a taxi.
Godfrey, Hugh and I went to a bar across the street. Hugh said, “You were right, girl. I was proud of you and you know I meant what I said. I’ll be up there to help whenever I can.”
“Yeah.” Godfrey paid for the drinks. “But you got to understand. I’m not going to address no envelopes. If I did, my handwriting is so bad, the post office would send the mail to the Library of Congress for framing and posterity. I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go. I’ll help you stuff the envelopes and I’ll come over to your house and have dinner.”
I told them I had never worked a mimeograph machine. Hugh asked if I could type a stencil. When I admitted that my two-finger typing had been limited to an occasional letter, they looked at me with wry alarm.
“You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve. You volunteered to ‘take care of it’ and you don’t know shit.” Hugh spoke more with admiration than anger.
“She knows she’s got to do it. Come hell or the Great Wall of China. She’s got to do it. I’m betting on you, kid.” Godfrey called out to the bartender, “Play it again, Sam. For my buddies and me.”
I wrote a simple announcement of Cabaret for Freedom listing the actors, the producers and the director. The mimeograph machine was much simpler than I expected. I took Guy to the office with me the first day, and he explained how the machine worked. The stencils were a little more complicated, but after a while, I realized that all I had to do was take my time, admittedly a lot of time, typing the script. Soon Godfrey was taking hundreds of envelopes to the morning and afternoon post.
The Village Gate filled to capacity to see our revue. The actors were happy and after they were paid, some took bills from their pockets, offering the money to the SCLC.
“Did a gig last week. King needs this five dollars more than I do.”
“I put my money where my mouth is. It’s not much but …”
Time, opportunity and devotion were in joint. Black actors, bent under the burden of unemployment and a dreary image of cinematic and stage Uncle Tom characterizations, had the chance to refute the reflection and at the same time, work toward the end of discrimination.
After Cabaret for Freedom, they would all be employed by suddenly aware and respectful producers. After Martin Luther King won freedom for us all, they would be paid honorable salaries and would gain the media coverage that their talents deserved.
“Give me that check. I’m going to sign it over to the SCLC. I’m sticking this week.”
It was the awakening summer of 1960 and the entire country was in labor. Something wonderful was about to be born, and we were all going to be good parents to the welcome child. Its name was Freedom.
Then, too soon, summer and the revue closed. The performers went back to the elevator-operating or waiting-on-tables jobs they had interrupted. A few returned to unemployment or welfare l
ines. No one was hired as a leading actor in a major dramatic company nor as a supporting actor in a small ensemble, or even as a chorus member in an Off-Off-Broadway show. Godfrey was still driving his beat-up cab, Hugh continued to work split shifts in his family’s liquor stores, and I was broke again. I had learned how to work office machines, and how to hold a group of fractious talented people together, but a whole summer was gone; I was out of work and Guy needed school clothes.
During the revue’s run, Guy had been free to spend his part-time salary on summer entertainment. He and Chuck Killens spent fortunes at Coney Island. They pursued the mysteries of pinball machines and employed the absence of adults to indulge in every hot-dog and spun-sugar fantasy of childhood.
Although Godfrey collected me when he could and took me to Harlem or delivered me back to Brooklyn, the money used for other transportation and the lunches at Frank’s on 125th ate away at my bankroll. Rent was due again.
Grossman, a night-club owner from Chicago, phoned. Would I be interested in singing in his new club, the Gate of Horn? I kept the relief out of my voice with great effort. Two weeks at a salary which would pay two months’ rent and pay for Guy’s back-to-school clothes.
After I accepted the offer, with secret but abject gratitude, I began to wonder what to do with Guy.
Grace and John offered to let him stay at their house, but Guy wouldn’t hear of that. He had a home. He was a man. Well, nearly, and he could look after himself. I was not to worry about him. Just go and work and return safely.
I called a phone number advertised in the Brooklyn black newspaper. Mrs. Tolman answered. I explained that I wanted someone who would come for three hours a day in the afternoon. Just cook dinner for my fifteen-year-old, clean the kitchen and make up his room.
I diminished her reluctance by saying that I was a woman alone, raising a boy, and that I had to go away for two weeks to work. I asked her over to the house to see how respectful my son was. I implied that he was well raised but didn’t say that outright. If I was lucky, when I returned from Chicago, she’d use those words herself.
Despite the harshness of their lives, I have always found that older black women are paragons of generosity. The right plea, arranged the right way, the apt implication, persuade the hungriest black woman into sharing her last biscuit.
When I told Mrs. Tolman that if I didn’t take the job in Chicago, I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent or buy shoes for my son, she said, “I’ll take the job, chile. And I’m going to take your word that you’ve got a good boy.”
Convincing Guy that we needed a housekeeper demanded at least as much finesse. After I told him about Mrs. Tolman, I waited quietly for the minutes he needed to explain how well he could look after himself and how she was going to get in the way and how well he could cook and that he wouldn’t eat a bite of her food and after all, what did I think he was? A little baby? And “Oh please, Mother, this is really boring.”
“Guy, Mrs. Tolman is coming because of the neighborhood. I’ve been looking at it very carefully.”
Against his will, he was interested.
“I’m convinced that a few professional burglars live down the street. Too much new furniture going in and out of the house. If those people don’t see an adult around here, they may take advantage of the hours when you’re away and clean us out.”
He got caught in the excitement of the possibility of crime.
“You think so? Which people? Which house?”
“I’d rather not point the finger without knowing for sure. But I’ve been watching closely. Mrs. Tolman will come around three, she’ll be gone by six. Since she’s going to be here, she’ll cook dinner for you and wash your clothes. But that’s a front. She’s really here to make the burglars think our house is always occupied.”
He accepted the contrived story.
John understood Guy’s display of independence, and told me it was natural. He urged me to go to Chicago, sing, make the money and come home to New York where I belonged. He would keep an eye on my son.
—
The modest Gate of Horn on Chicago’s Near North Side was located only a few blocks from the plush Mr. Kelly’s. The Gate had in warmth what Mr. Kelly’s had in elegance. I arrived in the middle of the Clancy Brothers’ rehearsal. Mike was at the microphone checking the sound system.
“Is this loud enough” Too loud? Can you hear us or are we blowing the ass back out of the room?”
The Irish accent was as palpable as mashed potatoes and rich as lace.
After the sound was adjusted, the brothers and Tommy Makem sang for their own enjoyment. Their passion matched the revolutionary lyrics of their songs.
“… The shamrock is forbid by law
to grow on Irish ground.”
If the words Negro and America were exchanged for shamrock and Irish, the song could be used to describe the situation in the United States.
The Clancy Brothers already had my admiration when we met backstage.
Amanda Ambrose, Oscar Brown, Jr., and Odetta came to opening night. We sat together and made joyful noises as the Irish singers told their stories.
The two weeks sped by, punctuated by telephone calls to Guy, who was understandably “doing just fine,” and to John Killens, who said everything was smooth. Oscar Brown and I spent long afternoons volleying stories. He was writing a play, Kicks & Co., for Broadway and I bragged that I had just come from a successful run of Cabaret for Freedom, which I partly wrote and co-produced.
We set each other afire with anger and complimented ourselves on our talent. We were meant for great things. The size and power of our adversaries were not greater than our capabilities. If we admitted that slavery and its child, legal discrimination, were declarations of war, then Oscar and I and all our friends were generals in the army and we would be among the officers who accepted the white flag of surrender when the battle was done. Amanda’s husband, Buzz, inspired by the fever of protest, made clothes for me based on African designs. Odetta, newly married, and radiant with love, was off to Canada. Before she left she gave me an afternoon of advice. “Keep on telling the truth, Maya. Stay on the stage. I don’t mean the night-club stage, or the theatrical stage. I mean on the stage of life.” And my Lord she was beautiful.
“And remember this, hon, don’t you let nobody turn you ’round. No body. Not a living ass.”
Closing night had been a hilarious celebration. The Clancy Brothers’ fans had found room to accept my songs, and the black people who had come to hear me had been surprised to find that not only did they enjoy the Irish singers’ anger, they understood it. We had drunk to each other’s resistance.
The next morning Oscar stood with me in the hotel lobby as I waited to pay my bill.
A uniformed black man came up to me.
“Miss Angelou? There’s a phone call for you from New York.”
Oscar said he’d keep my place in the line and I went to the phone.
“Maya?” John Killens’ voice was a spike, pinning me in place. “There’s been some trouble.”
“Trouble?” Somewhere behind my kneecaps there was a place that waited for trouble. “Is Guy all right?” The dread, closer than a seer’s familiar, which lived sucking off my life, was that something would happen to my only son. He would be stolen, kidnapped by a lonely person who, seeing his perfection, would be unable to resist. He would be struck by an errant bus, hit by a car out of control. He would walk a high balustrade, showing his beauty and coordination to a girl who was pretending disinterest. His foot would slip, his body would fold and crumple, he would fall fifty feet and someone would find my telephone number. I would be minding my own business and a stranger would call me to the phone.
“Hello?”
A voice would say, “There’s been trouble.”
My nightmare never went further. I never knew how serious the accident was, or my response. And now real life pushed itself through the telephone.
“Guy is okay.” John Killens’ voice
sounded as if it came from farther than New York City. “He’s here with us. I’m just calling to tell you not to go to your house. Come straight here.” Oh, the house burned down. “Was there a fire? Is anything left?” I had no insurance.
“There wasn’t a fire. Don’t worry. Just come to my house when your plane arrives. I’ll tell you when you get here. It’s nothing serious.” He hung up.
Oscar Brown was at my side. His green eyes stern. He put his hand on my shoulder.
“You O.K.?”
“That was John Killens. Something’s happened.”
“Is Guy O.K.? What was it?”
“Guy’s O.K., but John wouldn’t say.”
“Well, hell, that’s a bitch, ain’t it? Calling up saying something’s wrong and not saying …” He went over and picked up my bags.
“You pay your bill, I’ll bring the car to the front door.”
The drive to the airport was an adventure in motoring and a lesson in conversational dissembling. Oscar made erratic small talk, driving with one hand, leaning his car around corners, passing motorists with such speed that our car threatened to leave the road entirely. His chatter was constantly interrupted with “Guy’s O.K. Now, remember that.” He would turn to look at me. Fixing a stare so intense it seemed hypnotic. Noticing that he was conducting a car, he would swivel his head occasionally and give a moment’s attention to the road.
At the airport, he held me close and whispered. “Everything’s going to be O.K., little mother. Call me. I’ll be at home waiting.”
I dreaded the flight. Afraid that I would begin to cry and lose control. Afraid that the plane would crash and I would not be around to look after Guy and take care of the unknown problem.