by Maya Angelou
He walked out onto the landing and waited until the door slammed shut. I stepped back as he turned the knob and opened the door from his side.
“Come on. Let’s get up there.”
We raced up the steps to the eleventh floor. He grabbed the knob, but the door wouldn’t open.
“That cracker cop. He beat us to it. Stay here.”
He turned and trotted up another flight. I heard him mutter. “This damn door is locked too.”
He came down the steps heavily.
“What you wanna do now?”
I couldn’t think at the moment. I had only a vague plan to reach the eleventh floor and “see about Carlos.” My mind had not budged beyond the possibility of achieving that feat. I looked stupidly at Buddy, who was waiting for an answer. After a few seconds, my voice surfaced. “I guess there’s nothing else to do but go back to the street. I’m sorry.”
I expected to see disgust or at least derision on my accomplice’s face, but he displayed no emotion.
“All right, sister. Let’s go.”
We walked back down to the tenth floor and I pushed the door, but it resisted. I must have gasped, because he pushed me aside and grabbed the knob. “Let me do it.” He took the knob and leaned his body against the metal panel, but the door wouldn’t give. Panic accelerated my blood. Like an idiot I had given myself to death. The cops could open the door any minute and blow my brains out. No one would see and no one would be able to protect me. I saw an image of my son in his classroom. Who would tell him, and how would he handle the news? My new husband would receive a telegram in India. What would he think of a wife so frivolous as to commit suicide? My poor mother … The man beside me, whom fear had caused me to forget, took my shoulders in his hands.
“Sister. Sister. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. I’m here.”
He released me and stood on the landing’s edge. “They’ll have to walk over my dead body to get to you.”
Buddy ran down the steps. I heard him stop on the ninth floor, then his footsteps descended and stopped again and again. In a few seconds he called, “Sister Maya, come on. I got a door. Come on.” I met him on the sixth-floor landing. My heart was fluttering so I could hardly catch my breath. The hallway and the elevator looked to me like Canada must have to escaping slaves. We were in the lobby before my embarrassment returned. My hand on his arm turned him around. “Buddy, I apologize for panicking a while ago. I’m going to tell my husband about you.”
He looked at me, and shook his head. “Sister, in this country a Negro is always about to get killed, so that ain’t nothing. But you tell your husband that a black man was ready to lay down his life for you. That’s all.”
He took my elbow and guided me past the still-waiting police and to the door. I walked right into Rosa’s arms.
“Girl, what happened? Carlos came out just after you went in. A bunch of us were getting ready to go get you.” We hugged tightly. I said, “Rosa, you’ve got to meet this brother,” but when I turned to introduce Buddy, he had disappeared into the thinning crowd.
Rosa continued, “You were in there nearly twenty minutes.” That was astounding news. I had been bold, blatant and audacious. I had been silly, irresponsible and unprepared. My body had been enclosed with panic and my mind immobilized with fear. A stranger had shown the courage of Vivian Baxter and the generosity of Jesus. And all that had happened in twenty minutes.
Television and radio reporters were walking among the remaining protesters seeking interviews.
One woman spoke into a microphone. “Yes, we’re mad. You people pick us off like we’re jack rabbits. You dad-gummed right, we’re mad.” A man walking behind her added, “Lumumba was in the Congo. The Congo is in Africa and we’re Africans. You get that?”
CAWAH members had agreed to make no public statements, so we turned our faces when the journalists approached. The line of marchers was exhausted. People had begun to peel away. Their shoulders sagged and they walked heavily. They knew that their latest protest had done no good. They had been Joshua’s band, shouting and screaming, singing and yelling at the walls, but Jericho had remained upright, unchanged.
That night I went to Rosa’s for dinner and to watch the evening news. The cameras caught black bodies hurtling out of the U.N. doors, and marchers chanting along 46th Street.
Angry faces in profile glided across the screen, shouting accusations. When an unknown, well-dressed man came into view, and speaking pompously, said that he took full responsibility for the demonstration, Jean responded by calling him a sap sucker and turning off the television.
The echo of the day’s excitement and the wonder of CAWAH’s power to bring all those people from Harlem kept us quiet for a few minutes. When conversation did return we talked about our next moves. The day had proven that Harlem was in commotion and the rage was beyond the control of the NAACP, the SCLC or the Urban League. The fury would turn on itself if it was not outwardly directed. There would be an increase of stabbings and shootings as black people assaulted each other, discharging tension, and blindly looking for a surcease of pained lives.
Rosa and I said, “the Black Muslims” and grinned, because we thought alike and at the same time. Of course, the Muslims, with their exquisite discipline and their absolute stand on black-white relations, would know how to control and use the ferment in Harlem. We should go straight to Malcolm X and lay the situation in his lap. It would be interesting to see what he would do. And it would be a relief to shift the responsibility.
The next day, Guy jumped with excitement. “Mom, you’re great. Really great. I wish I had been there. Boy, I wish I could have seen Stevenson’s face. Boy, that’s fantastic.”
John Killens phoned. “Why didn’t you let me know you people were going to have a riot? I’m always ready for a riot. You know that, angel.”
When I explained that we had only expected a few people, he grunted and said we had fallen into the same trick bag whites are in. We underestimated the black community.
Two days later, Rosa and I walked into the Muslim Restaurant. Making the appointment had been the easiest part. I simply telephoned the Mosque and asked if Mr. Malcolm X could spare a half-hour for two black ladies. After a brief pause I was given a time and a place. Putting my thoughts in respectable order was more difficult, because after I knew Malcolm would see us I became appalled at our presumption.
We told a waitress that we had come to see Mr. Malcolm X. She nodded and walked away, disappearing through a door at the end of the long counter. We stood nervously in the center of the room. In a moment Malcolm appeared at the rear door. His aura was too bright and his masculine force affected me physically. A hot desert storm eddied around him and rushed to me, making my skin contract, and my pores slam shut. He approached, and all my brain would do for me was record his coming. I had never been so affected by a human presence.
Watching Malcolm X on television or even listening to him speak on a podium had been no preparation for meeting him face to face.
“Ladies, Salaam aleikum.” His voice was black baritone and musical. Rosa shook hands, and I was able to nod dumbly. Up close he was a great red arch through which one could pass to eternity. His hair was the color of burning embers and his eyes pierced. He offered us a chair at a table and asked a nervous waitress for tea, which she brought in trembling cups.
Rosa was more contained than I, so she began explaining our mission. The sound of her voice helped me to shake loose the constriction of muteness. I joined the telling, and we distributed our story equally, like the patter of a long-time vaudeville duo.
“We—CAWAH …”
“Cultural Association of Women of African Heritage.”
“Wanted to protest the murder of Lumumba so we—”
“Planned a small demonstration. We didn’t expect—”
“More than fifty people—”
“And thousands came.”
“That told us that the people of Harlem are angry and that th
ey are more for Africa and Africans”
“than they ever let on …”
Malcolm was leaning back in his chair, his chin tilted down, his attention totally ours. He straightened abruptly.
“We know of the demonstration, but Muslims were not involved. New York Times reporters telephoned me and I told them, ‘Muslims do not demonstrate.’ And I’ll tell you this, you were wrong.”
Rosa and I looked at each other. Malcolm X, as the most radical leader in the country, was our only hope, and if he didn’t approve of our action then maybe we had misunderstood everything.
“You were wrong in your direction.” He continued speaking and looking straight into our eyes. “The people of Harlem are angry. And they have reason to be angry. But going to the United Nations, shouting and carrying placards will not win freedom for anyone, nor will it keep the white devils from killing another African leader. Or a black American leader.”
“But”—Rosa was getting angry—“what were we supposed to do? Nothing? I don’t agree with that.” She had more nerve than I.
“The Honorable Elijah Muhammad teaches us that integration is a trick. A trick to lull the black man to sleep. We must separate ourselves from the white man, this immoral white man and his white religion. It is a hypocrisy practiced by Christian hypocrites.”
He continued. White Christians were guilty. Portuguese Catholic priests had sprinkled holy water on slave ships, entreating God to give safe passage to the crews and cargoes on journeys across the Atlantic. American slave owners had used the Bible to prove that God wanted slavery, and even Jesus Christ had admonished slaves to “render unto their masters” obedience. As long as the black man looked to the white man’s God for his freedom, the black man would remain enslaved.
I tried not to show my disappointment.
“Thank you. Thank you for your time. Mr. X—oh, I don’t know your last name. I mean, how should you be addressed?”
“I am Minister Malcolm. My last name is Shabazz. But just call me Minister Malcolm.”
Rosa had stood, irritation on her face.
Malcolm said, “I know you’re disappointed.” His voice had softened and for a time the Islamic preacher disappeared. “I’ll tell you this. By twelve o’clock, some Negro leaders are going to be like Peter in your Christian Bible. They will deny you. There will be statements given to the press, not only refuting what you did, but they will add that you are dangerous and probably Communists. Those Negroes”—he said the word sarcastically—“think they’re different from you and that the white man loves them for their difference. They will sell you again and again into slavery. Now, here’s what we, the Nation of Islam, will not do. We will not ask the people of Harlem to march anywhere at any time. We will not send black men and black women and black children before armed and crazy white devils, and we will not deny you. We will do two things. We will offer them the religion of Islam the Prophet Muhammad and the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. And we will make a statement to the press. I will say that yesterday’s demonstration is symbolic of the anger in this country. That black people were saying they will not always say ‘yessir’ and ‘please, sir.’ And they will not always allow whites to spit on them at lunch counters in order to eat hot dogs and drink Coca-Colas.” He stood; our audience was over. Suddenly he was aloof and cool, his energy withdrawn. He said, “Salaam aleikum” and turned to join a few men who had been waiting for him at the counter.
We left the restaurant in a fog of defeat. Black despair was still real, the murders would continue and we had just used up our last resource. When Rosa and I embraced at the subway there was no elation in our parting.
That evening the radio, television and newspapers bore out Malcolm’s predictions.
Conservative black leaders spoke out against us. “That ugly demonstration was carried out by an irresponsible element and does not reflect the mood of the larger black community.”
“No good can come from yesterday’s blatant disrespect at the U.N.” “It was undignified and unnecessary.”
Malcolm X was as good as his word. He said, “Black people are letting white Americans know that the time is coming for ballots or bullets. They know it is useless to ask their enemy for justice. And surely whites are the enemies of blacks, otherwise how did we get to this country in the first place?”
CHAPTER 12
Vus was back in New York, a little heavier and more distracted. He said the Indian curries had been irresistible and his meetings succeeded but raised new questions which he had to handle at once. He was out of the house early and came home long after dark. Guy was engaged in the mysteries which surround fifteen-year-old boys: The cunning way girls were made. The delicious agony of watching them walk. The painful knowledge that not one of the beauteous creatures would allow herself to be held and touched. Except for the refrigerator, the telephone was his only important link to life. One morning I realized that weeks had passed since I had participated in a conversation with anyone. When Max invited me over to read a script with Abbey, I accepted gladly. He had composed the music for Jean Genet’s play, The Blacks, which was to open Off-Broadway in the late spring. When I walked into their apartment, a small group of musicians was tuning up beside the piano. I was introduced to the production team.
Sidney Bernstein, the producer, was a frail little man, who sat smiling timidly, his eyes wandering the room unfocused. The energetic and intense director, Gene Frankel, snapped his head from right to left and back again in small jerks, reminding me of a predatory bird, perched on a high bluff. The stage manager, Max Glanville, a tall sturdy black man, was at ease in the room. He sat composed while his two colleagues twitched. When Frankel said he was ready to hear the music, there was impatience in his voice.
Sidney smiled and said there was plenty of time.
Abbey and I sat opposite each other holding copies of the marked script. We divided the roles evenly and when the music began, we read, sometimes against the music, over it, or waited in intervals as the notes took center stage. Neither of us was familiar with the play, and since its structure was extremely complex, and its language convoluted, we read in monotones, not even trying to make dramatic sense. Finally, we reached the last notes. The evening had seemed to be endless. Gene Frankel was the first to stand. He rushed up to Max, took his hand, looked deep into his eyes, “Great. Great. Just great. We’ve got to be going. O.K. Thank you, ladies. Thank you. Great reading.” Frankel turned around like a kitten trying to catch its tail. “O.K., Sidney? Let’s go. Glanville.” He turned again. “Musicians? Oh yeah, thanks, guys. Great.”
In a second he was at the door, his hand on the knob. Sidney went to the musicians, shaking hands, giving each a bit of a wispy grin. He thanked Max and Abbey and me. “The music was perfect.” Glanville looked at his white partners slyly and smiled at us. His leer said he was leaving with them only because he had to, and we would understand.
“O.K., folks. Thanks. Thanks, Max. We’ll be talking to you.” When the door closed behind them I laughed, partly out of relief. Max asked what was funny. I said the play and the producers.
“You mean you didn’t understand it.” All of a sudden he was angry and he began to shout at me. He said The Blacks was not only a good play, it was a great play. It was written by a white Frenchman who had done a lot of time in prison. Genet understood the nature of imperialism and colonialism and how those two evils erode the natural good in people. It was important that our people see the play. Every black in the United States should see it. Furthermore, as a black woman married to a South African and raising a black boy, I should damn well understand the play before I started laughing at it. And as for ridiculing the white men, at least they were going to put the play on, and all I could do was laugh at them. I ought to have better sense.
The musicians made a lot of noise packing up their instruments. Abbey sat quiet, looking at Max; I got up and gathered my purse. I wanted at least to reach the door before the tears fell.
“Good nig
ht.”
Abbey called, “Thanks, Maya. Thanks for reading.” I was nearly at the elevator before I heard a door and Max’s voice at the same time.
“Maya, wait.” He walked toward me. I thought that he was sorry to have spoken so harshly. “Take this.” He handed me a wrapped package. “Read it.” He was nearly barking. “Read it, understand it. Then see if you’ll laugh.” I took the manuscript and he spun around and went back into his apartment.
Vus studied political releases, Guy did schoolwork and I read The Blacks. During the third reading, I began to see through the tortuous and mythical language, and the play’s meaning became clear. Genet suggested that colonialism would crumble from the weight of its ignorance, its arrogance and greed, and that the oppressed would take over the positions of their former masters. They would be no better, no more courageous and no more merciful.
I disagreed. Black people could never be like whites. We were different. More respectful, more merciful, more spiritual. Whites irresponsibly sent their own aged parents to institutions to be cared for by strangers and to die alone. We generously kept old aunts and uncles, grandparents and great-grandparents at home, feeble but needed, senile but accepted as natural parts of natural families.
Our mercy was well known. During the thirties Depression, white hobos left freight trains and looked for black neighborhoods. They would appear hungry at the homes of the last hired and the first fired, and were never turned away. The migrants were given cold biscuits, leftover beans, grits and whatever black folks could spare. For centuries we tended, and nursed, often at our breasts, the children of people who despised us. We had cooked the food of a nation of racists, and despite the many opportunities, there were few stories of black servants poisoning white families. If that didn’t show mercy, then I misunderstood the word.
As for spirituality, we were Christians. We demonstrated the teachings of Christ. We turned other cheeks so often our heads seemed to revolve on the end of our necks, like old stop-and-go signs. How many times should we forgive? Jesus said seven times seventy. We forgave as if forgiving was our talent. Our church music showed that we believed there was something greater than we, something beyond our physical selves, and that that something, that God, and His Son, Jesus, were always present and could be called “in the midnight hour” and talked to when the “sun raised itself to walk across the morning sky.” We could sing the angels out of heaven and bring them to stand thousands thronged on the head of a pin. We could ask Jesus to be on hand to “walk around” our deathbeds and gather us into “the bosom of Abraham.” We told Him all about our sorrows and relished the time when we would be counted among numbers of those who would go marching in. We would walk the golden streets of heaven, eat of the milk and honey, wear the promised shoes and rest in the arms of Jesus, who would rock us and say, “You have labored in my vineyard. You are tired. You are home now, child. Well done.” Oh, there was no doubt that we were spiritual.