by Maya Angelou
“She said, ‘Here he is.’
“I told him, ‘Go, get in the driver’s seat and let me show you why you are alive this morning.’ ”
She made him drive her back to her house. She told him, “Come on inside. Open the bedroom door and get on your knees because if it wasn’t for my baby, I’d blow you a brand-new one this morning.”
When he left I said to my mother, “You know I brought friends here. They think I am so such-a-much and they are in the house because I invited them. Nichelle Nichols and her fella and my fella, who are quite well-known artists, even famous, were going to be involved in a shooting. Was that fair to me?”
She came around to me and she said, “Baby, you know I didn’t do anything to that man. He’s the one who did something to me. You see, baby, you have to protect yourself. If you don’t protect yourself, you look like a fool asking somebody else to protect you.” I thought about that for a second. She was right. A woman needs to support herself before she asks anyone else to support her.
Maybe she could have found another time to assert herself and her rights than a night when my illustrious friends were in the house. But she didn’t, and that was Vivian Baxter.
Years later a friend took me to have my hair done around 10 A.M. in a salon on Fillmore Street. The beautician was busy and asked if I would come back in about an hour. There was an open bar across the street; after all, it was San Francisco. My friend and I went over to the bar. The bartender seemed familiar. After we ordered drinks I asked my friend Jim, “Will you ask the bartender his name?”
Jim asked the barkeep, “Excuse me, what is your name?”
“My name is Cliff.” Then he looked at me. “Ask her if she knows me. I know her mother.”
Then he spoke directly to me. “How’s your mother, baby?”
I said, “She’s fine, thank you.”
He said, “I was just up in Stockton visiting her. She is sure one hell of a woman.” He should know.
25
Lady bonded with a few friends from the Women Elks Organization, the members of the Order of the Eastern Star, and the Older Women’s League (OWL) and formed a group she called the Stockton Black Women for Humanity.
She had included some of her white sister friends, one judge, one seamstress who sold exquisite fashions, and two nurses. She called them “honorary black women.” They all collected clothes which they sent to the cleaners to be cleaned and others to be washed.
She used one of her garages as a closet, arranging clothes in sizes and colors. There were women’s pants, summer house dresses, and formal Sunday clothes. Men’s work pants and shirts, slacks, and dress shirts had their own space. Boys’ and girls’ clothes were arranged according to size.
The Stockton Black Women for Humanity gave scholarships of $350 to students as they finished the eleventh grade. My mother said many students dropped out after the eleventh grade in high school because they didn’t have the popular clothes to wear into their senior year of high school. The scholarships were given as money and gift cards for students to use at Sears and J.C. Penney department stores.
Saturday, March 4, 1995, at the groundbreaking ceremony for the Vivian “Lady B” Baxter Park in Stockton, California. Vice Mayor Floyd Weaver is introducing Maya Angelou before presenting the plaque for the park, with her grandson, Colin Johnson, in the background.
“[Bailey] adored our mother, and laughing and joking, he showed his delight at being with her.”
(Right to left: Vice Mayor Floyd Weaver, Colin Johnson, Maya Angelou, Bailey Johnson [brother of Maya Angelou])
I went to visit Mother in her Stockton home one afternoon. She was in a mood of such hilarity she couldn’t stop laughing. When I asked what was so funny, she said a month earlier the mayor of a nearby town had telephoned her and said, “Lady Baxter, we know you are famous for knowing everybody in Stockton and for being kind and generous to everybody. I am the mayor of this town and we have a situation here that I have not been able to improve.”
The caller went on, “There is a man and woman, their teenage children, and his mother all living in a car. They have been seeking employment for two weeks to no avail. I wonder if I sent them to you, could you help them at all? They are all healthy and willing to work.”
Mother asked, “How long have they been sleeping in the car?”
The mayor said, “For over a week.”
Mother told her, “All right, let them sleep tonight in the car but here is my address. Have them come to my house tomorrow morning by seven A.M. I’ll do my best.”
The next morning the family arrived and Lady sent them to the garage to find clean clothes, gave them towels, and sent them off to shower, clean up, and dress.
When the family returned, Mother cooked a large breakfast and they ate heartily. Lady had called her friends and sent their clothes to the laundry and found jobs in supermarkets bagging groceries and jobs in gas stations and in parking lots. Before nightfall she had found accommodations for the family.
Weeks had passed and the mayor called my mother the day before I arrived. She said, “Lady Baxter, thank you very much for what you did for that family I sent to you. I’m in Stockton and if you have some coffee, I would love to come and have a cup of coffee with you.”
My mother said, “Come.”
A few minutes later her doorbell rang and she opened the door and a middle-aged white woman said to my mother, “I’m looking for Lady Baxter.”
Vivian Baxter said, “You’re looking at her.”
When Mother told me that, laughing out loud, she said the mayor looked at her and almost shat. She expected her to be white. The mayor was white and the family she sent to my mother was white. She didn’t understand that Stockton Black Women for Humanity were gathered to serve all humanity: white, black, Spanish-speaking, and Asian; fat, thin, pretty, plain, rich, poor, gay, and straight.
Mother said, “The mayor sat down and drank a half cup of coffee. She was so uncomfortable she said she had to go. I saw her to the door and the Lord knows, I felt sorry for her.”
26
Mother telephoned. Her voice did not have its usual strength. “I need to see you. Can you come to San Francisco for a week? I’ll help with the airline ticket.”
I didn’t need money, but I did want to know why the urgency, “Are you sick?”
“Yes, but I’m seeing a doctor and all will be well.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“When you get into San Francisco, don’t go home. I’m staying with a sick woman.”
“You are not well and you’re nursing someone else?”
“Yes, but I will leave here at the end of the week. Come on, honey, you’ll understand when you get here.”
That next evening I picked up a taxi from the San Francisco airport and told the driver to take me to the Stonestown Apartments. Immediately I knew my mother’s patient was a white woman. I had not heard of any African Americans living in those apartments.
Mother met me as I stepped out of the elevator. A smile wrapped around her whole face. She was so happy to see me, she glowed. She took my bag and brought me into the apartment. We sat on the side of her bed and she patted my face and my leg. She didn’t look very strong, but whatever was ailing her had taken only a little of her spirit.
“Don’t worry, I’m not that sick, but I need to get my property straightened out. Your brother is coming in tomorrow from Hawaii.”
Things were more serious than I thought, or than she was letting on.
I asked her about the woman she was working for. She said the woman had three nurses and they worked three days and nights. There were maids who worked eight-hour shifts, but the nurses worked around the clock. This was the first of my mother’s three days.
I asked what was wrong with her employer. She said, “Nothing medical, really, but she has forgotten almost all of her past. She remembers a few things from her childhood, but everything else is gone. She thinks I am her older sister and she’s about eighty yea
rs old. She is white, has a little accent, but I think she’s American.”
Mother went to the kitchen and made me a sandwich. She brought it and we had a glass of wine at the table. As we ate she said that when I got up the next day, after my shower, I should come down the hall to the living room. She had told the maid that I was coming, so I was to simply greet her with “Hello, Miss Susan.”
I awakened a little fuzzily the next morning; maybe it was the amount of alcohol I drank or the jet lag left rocking in my shoes.
I walked down the hall and saw my mother’s white shoes and stockings sticking out. Mother was sitting on the sofa and as I got closer, I saw a little woman sitting on the sofa opposite my mother. A wild splash of color over her head made it seem as if the wall had gone crazy. I gasped. My mother jumped up and came to me. She took my hands. “What on earth is it?” she asked. When I turned to my mother, the area over her head also seemed to be colors gone mad, screaming. I had never had such an experience like that in my life. I was shaken. My mother held me. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?”
I couldn’t talk.
The little white woman came over and took my hand. In a whispery voice she said, “Hello, dear. I know who you are. You are my sister’s daughter. She told me you were coming. You are Vivian’s daughter.” She patted my cheek. I pulled away and thought I really had lost it.
Tears slipped down my face and I didn’t know why. My mother didn’t know, either, but the little woman said, “Oh, of course I know why she’s crying. It’s because of the Matisses.” I looked at her and then I looked over her head and there was a Matisse, about seven feet by seven, and another equally large one over the sofa where my mother had sat. All the colors, all the action, in such a narrow space, were more than I could take.
The woman said, “These are just Matisses. Come, my dear, come. Oh Vivian, don’t be afraid, she’s all right. It’s just the power of Henri’s work.”
The woman took my hand, and although I was shaking, I allowed her to guide me around her apartment. She had original paintings by Picasso, Matisse, Rouault; large, great pieces adorned the wall in the small San Francisco apartment. She even had a small bust of a man. She patted it and said, “This is Leo. He wants to marry me. He’s nice. He comes over here and I like him enough, but I haven’t said yes. Picasso made this for me. It’s a bust of Leo.”
I returned to my mother’s bedroom and thought about what I had just experienced. I had had a physical response to art. I breathed deeply and was relieved. For the first time in my life art seemed to have a tonal quality. I could almost hear the art as if it were a great chord of a symphonic piece.
When I finally achieved some balance, I went to sit in the kitchen. Mother joined me. She introduced me to Mrs. Stein, who also sat down with us. Mrs. Stein explained to my mother that sometimes artists respond in very strange ways when they see the work of other artists.
“Your daughter cried because she is an artist, and she’s my niece and naturally she’s very, very sensitive.”
I thought of the irony of the woman who had forgotten major portions of her life. She had forgotten that she had been married to one man for over fifty years … but she remembered the art.
I stayed there with my mom for two days. Then I went over to my mother’s house and waited for her.
When she arrived she explained to me that Mrs. Stein was the widow of Leo Stein, who was the brother of Gertrude Stein. They had lived in Paris and collected great art in the early part of the twentieth century. Mr. and Mrs. Stein had come back to San Francisco, where he died.
Her family had taken an apartment for their mother. All the employees hired to look after her were carefully selected and bonded. Mrs. Stein, in her generosity and lack of memory, was apt to give pieces of art to her employees, who were informed to telephone the estate executor and report the gift. The executor would have the art picked up and put away. But her family let the rest of the art remain with her until she gave it away.
My mother said that was the expression of intelligence and love. Mrs. Stein’s family knew that the art on the walls was more real to her than they themselves. Its presence in the apartment gave her assurance that she existed and that her existence was important.
27
Winter in Stockholm is hardly bearable. The cold assails the body and the darkness assaults the soul. The sun rises in the winter or attempts to rise at least by 10 A.M. By three in the afternoon it returns shamefully to the dark, and it rests there until the next morning, around ten, when it tries again to shine.
I was in Stockholm because a screenplay of mine was being shot there. The music I was writing for the screenplay was to be recorded in the Swedish Radio studios.
The stars of the film were well-known American stage actors, and a couple of movie actors were also in the cast.
The play was about an African American nightclub singer who was the toast of Europe. I based her character on the personality of Eartha Kitt. The actress who played the role was not a singer, so I wrote music for her that she could simply speak on pitch, much as Rex Harrison had spoken his lines in My Fair Lady. The actress came to my apartment in New York City to thank me. She thanked me for making it possible for her to take the lead because I had written simple music that she didn’t have to sing. I had also written a character role for the actor Roscoe Lee Browne, but it had to go to another actor because Browne was making a film, starring John Wayne.
I went to Stockholm to meet the director and film crew. I was sitting in my hotel lobby when a young African American man saw me and ran over. He got down on his knees. “Maya Angelou, you are really so great. You really are our Shakespeare, and I thank you for this chance. I am going to do it well and you are going to be proud of me.”
I said to him, “Don’t kneel, please. Sometimes people put people on pedestals so they can see them more clearly and knock them off more easily. Get up.”
“No, I want you to know I think you are our Shakespeare.”
I said, “Oh, please don’t. If you stay on your knees, I will get down there and if you lie out prone, I will lie down on the rug.” Fortunately he believed me and got up.
The cast and crew had gathered. A Swedish director had been chosen. I accompanied him in the search for locations. The shooting began. The star, as written, was a true glamour queen. Her makeup was professionally applied and the luxuriant wigs she wore floated around her face. As the story progressed, from time to time she would remove the wig. She was quite wonderful to look at. Beneath her wigs, her hair was in braided cornrows, a style often worn by African American women. None of the Swedish beauticians knew how to plait cornrows. I was obliged to go to the set on early mornings to braid the star’s hair. I appreciated the opportunity, since I could see how films were made. I developed a new ambition. I wanted to direct a movie. Every day I went to the location eager to learn more.
By the third week I began to understand about the setting up of lights and I saw how cameras could be switched to cover scenes. In 1972, I didn’t know anyplace in the United States where a forty-year-old black woman could learn filmmaking and I was happy that I had happened upon my chance.
At the beginning of the fourth week, the star told the director that when I was on the set she got nervous. She couldn’t act if she was nervous. Sorry, but she didn’t want me on the set. The director, who, I gathered, had never before even shaken a black person’s hand, must have felt caught between the Mississippi and the North Sea. He took the easy way out and asked me to come to the set only to braid her hair and then leave.
The next week, the actor who was playing the role I had written for Roscoe Lee Browne decided he had to return to New York. He was going home because he claimed the company had supplied real jewelry for the star and they had only given him zircons. He said he didn’t come to Sweden to be treated like a second-class citizen. I went to his hotel and found him in his suite with a number of Swedish friends. His packed bags were in the hall.
I spoke to him. “Please, what are you doing? You realize we have shot four weeks. This is the first time that any black woman has ever had a screenplay done by a major company. We can’t afford to send for another actor to come for that role. You said you wanted to do it.”
“Who in the hell do you think you are, Shakespeare?”
I lowered my voice. “May I speak to you in your bedroom?”
He lifted his eyes, screwed up his face, mugging for his friends, and then agreed to come into the bedroom. As soon as I closed the door I knelt. “I am doing something very dangerous. I have gotten on my knees to you.” I said, “Please, I beg you to consider.” He told me what I could do to myself, which was a sexual impossibility.
I stood up and became Vivian Baxter. I said, “Thank you for that, you silly ass! Now I will stay up all night and all day, and I will rewrite the rest of your role out of the script. I will have you run over by a Swedish bus. I promise you I will make the audience applaud when you die.”
He sobered quickly. “Listen, I didn’t mean that, Maya. I just wanted to see how serious you were about wanting me.” He went out into the hall and got his bags and brought them back in.
I went back to my hotel and called my mother. I didn’t use “Lady” or “Mother.” “Mom, I need mothering. If you have ever done any, I need it now. I am sending you a check, and as soon as you get it please book a flight and come to Stockholm.”
She said, “Baby, if any plane is leaving San Francisco today for Sweden, I will be on it. You pick me up tomorrow morning at the Stockholm airport.”
I knew that if she said she was coming, she was coming. At eleven o’clock I asked Jack Jordan, one of the film’s producers, to accompany me to the Stockholm airport. We went to the airport bar and while we waited, we drank and drank, until finally Jack had to be sent back to his hotel.
I sat at the airport waiting for my mother to mother me. The plane arrived at last and I went to the area where I could see my little mother come down the steps, tipping in her high-heeled shoes. She was in her typical Vivian Baxter dress, carrying her sable stole, and her sparkling diamonds were flashing. I waved at her and she waved back with a little military salute. As soon as she was through security, we embraced.