The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou (147 page)

“You are human. That is a historic problem. Remember, Cain killed Abel. His brother.”

“But what will our people do? It took a long time to make Malcolm.”

“You’ve got a long time. Some say that the American Negro represents the best the African can hope for.”

He looked at my surprise.

“I agree in part. Sold by your people, brought here as slaves. Slavery lasted nearly three hundred years, and ten, twenty years after it was abolished, you had schools. Colleges. Fisk, Howard, Tuskegee. And even today, look at you, you are everywhere in this country. You will be all right.” He patted me and hugged me.

When he was good, he was very very good. Ah. But when he was bad …

—

I went to my friend the actress Nichelle Nichols. We had become friends ten years earlier, during the filming of
Porgy and Bess
.

She was beautiful even when scowling. “Girl, tell him he is in America now, and we believe in one person, one vote. Anyway, bring him over for dinner. I’ll have a little bee for his bonnet.”

After fifteen minutes, I saw that dinner at Nichelle’s was a bad idea. He spoke of Mother Africa and her children everywhere, and Nichelle was spellbound.

As we left, she whispered to me, “You’re so lucky.”

Los Angeles, seen through my lover’s eyes, was more colorful than I had realized, more variegated. He saw Watts as a community of great interest. After he observed many black families trying to restore their neat neighborhoods, he said, “But these people are fastidious.”

I was surprised at his surprise. He explained, “Until recently in Africa all we saw of American Negroes was Rochester with Jack Benny, and Stepnfetchit, and athletes like Joe Louis and Jackie Robinson. I haven’t seen it, but I understand Harlem is a hellhole.”

“Harlem is beautiful.”

In every conversation with him, I put on my armor of defense, whether I needed it or not, and whether or not my point of view was defensible.

“There are a few ugly places,” I admitted, “but there are many ugly places in Africa.”

We visited black-owned bookstores that featured books by blacks and about blacks.

He bought out entire shelves’ worth and asked me to pay. The money was his, but he asked me to carry it, saying that he could not understand paper money without a black man’s face on it.

I sidestepped a full-out argument by not reminding him that the Ghanaian pound, with Kwame Nkrumah’s face on it, was only ten years old.

I was in a labyrinth, going somewhere without knowing my destination or even when I might arrive. I still loved him and wanted him, but there were parts of his life I could not even begin to fathom.

Sometimes, when I answered my telephone, a woman’s voice would ask for him. She was calling from New York.

My lover explained, “She is a very old black lady, and she was helpful to me when I stopped at the United Nations.”

Her voice didn’t sound old, and he laughed with her on the telephone as if she were a girl.

“Her name is Dolly McPherson, and she is a very powerful old woman. She is an official at the Institute of International Education.”

Our final argument came unexpectedly over Doris Day and Rock Hudson. We had gone to a movie in which they starred. He was totally silent as I drove home. He didn’t speak when we got out of the car or when we entered the house. He was pouting. I didn’t know why, and I was certainly not going to ask. I hated the torture of the silent treatment that he used when he was displeased.

I went straight to the kitchen and began warming the food I had cooked earlier. When the table was set with my good china and dinner placed on my best tablecloth, I went into the living room, where he sat like a Yoruba carving.

“Dinner is ready.”

He looked up at me, his eyes glinting and his face in a monumental scowl.

“Why can’t we be like them?”

“Like whom?”

“Those two actors in the film.”

“Doris Day and Rock Hudson?”

“I don’t know their names, but why can’t we be to each other the way they are?”

“Are you serious?”

“Do you think I am playing?”

“Those are actors. They are not real. I mean, the roles are just roles. You know that.”

He had graduated from England’s top university with the highest academic degree and he was one of the most educated persons I had ever known. He was being perverse.

Perversity is contagious. I asked, “You want me to become a perky little blond woman? Is that what you want? You have little chance of getting that from me.”

He said, “You American Negroes. I never know if you are just stupid or merely pretending.” He looked at me pityingly.

Cursing has never been one of my strong suits, but I gathered a few sordid words and started throwing them around. The louder I became, the more scornful his look, and the louder I became.

I picked up my car keys and my purse and went into the kitchen. I took the corners of the tablecloth and let the food and plates and silverware and glasses fall down in the center. I dragged the whole thing to the living room.

“Here’s dinner if you want it. I’m leaving.”

Anger and frustration rode with me all the way to Nichelle’s house.

“Well, Maya, you’re always welcome to stay here, but you know how I feel about your marriage.”

We weren’t married. In Ghana we had done a little homemade ritual in the presence of a few friends. There had been no public ceremony, no authority to sanction our being together, no license assuring us of society’s agreement. We had said some words, made some promises and poured schnapps on the ground.

I called my mother in San Francisco, who said that Bailey was visiting. I spoke to my brother and told him of my predicament. He listened and said that they would both be in Los Angeles the next day. I told them that I was spending the night with Nichelle and gave them the phone number and address.

They arrived at Nichelle’s house in the morning in a rental car and I filled them in over coffee. I mentioned the African’s cold treatment and how it drove me mad. They both understood. I said nothing about the curse words.

Mom said, “Well, let’s go over and meet this man who wants to take you back to Africa.”

Bailey rode in my car. He had been my closest and dearest friend all my life. “My, how is it? What do you want?”

“I want him to go back to Africa. He brings no peace, and I can’t seem to manufacture any while he is around. He should go.”

Bailey said, “Then he will go, and go today. Somewhere.”

My brother was black and beauteous. He had given me my name, protected me, educated me and told me when I was twelve that I was smart. He had added that I was not as smart as he was, but I was smarter than almost everyone else. He was, at his tallest, five feet four inches tall.

The African had showered and changed, but the soiled tablecloth remained on the floor.

He shook hands with Bailey and embraced my mother.

Mother looked at the litter on the floor and turned to me.

“I left it here last night.”

Mother said, “Aha.”

I nodded to Bailey. He helped me carry the sour-smelling bundle back to the kitchen. Mother sat down, and as Bailey and I left the room, I heard her say, “Now, what’s going on between you and my baby?”

Bailey asked me, “Where are his clothes? Does he have enough money to leave?” I pointed to a closet and told him that the African had plenty of money. I added, “He said he had brought a lot because he was going to carry me back to Africa.”

Bailey said, “The hell. Did he think he had to pay a bride-price?”

That was my brother. He could make me laugh even in the grimmest situations.

“He’s been talking about going to Mexico City. Kwesi Brew is Ghana’s ambassador to Mexico, and Kwesi and his wife, Molly, love him. They dote on him.”

Bailey said, “From what I see, he can take a lot of doting.”

He watched as I cleared up the mess. “You are really your mother’s daughter. He doesn’t know he is lucky that you didn’t dump that dinner on his head.”

I told him that if I had done that, I thought the African would have hit me.

Bailey responded instantly, “He’d have only one time to do that. Next time he’d draw back a stub. Let’s go see what your mother is doing.”

My little mother sat in the one upholstered chair as primly as an old-fashioned schoolteacher. Her legs were crossed at the ankles. Her purse and gloves lay in her lap.

“Well, baby, this gentleman has reported you to me. He said you used profanity last night.”

The African blurted out, “She used words I never even heard Negro sailors use when their ships docked in Ghana’s port city of Tema. Her mouth should be washed out. You should do that.”

Mother said, “Oh, I would never do a thing like that. Never. People use profanity because they have limited vocabularies or because they are lazy or too frustrated to search for the words they want. My daughter has an extensive vocabulary and doesn’t have a lazy bone in her body. So she cursed out of frustration. Why were you frustrated, baby?”

Bailey spoke before I could answer. “Excuse me, Mom, but I’d like to speak to him.” He turned to the African. “Would you come with me for a walk around the block?”

The African assented. When they were both on the steps, Bailey stuck his head back in the door.

“Pack his clothes.”

Mother watched as I folded the flamboyant African robes into a trunk.

“Your brother said you didn’t sound right on the telephone. That’s why we are here.”

“I wasn’t right. I won’t deny I was happy to see him, but I can’t stand his rudeness in my face all the time.”

“Wasn’t he rude in Africa?” Although it was ten
A.M.
, she was making herself a Scotch. She had told me years earlier that the time to drink was when you wanted it and could afford to buy it for yourself.

“It wasn’t so bad there. First he had his business to focus his attention. He had his children, and I had my own house. And here he’s only
got me. So since he can’t stand anyone around me, I’ve become the whipping boy.”

Mother sucked her teeth loudly. “Well, you sure as hell weren’t raised to be that for anybody. But it’s all right. Your brother will take care of it.”

The two men walked back into the house laughing uproariously and patting each other on the back.

“I want you to come to Africa yourself, Bailey, see how we live, eh.”

Bailey said, “You bet. I’ll probably be there before Maya gets back.” He noticed my suitcase on the floor. He asked, “Oh, you’ve been packing?”

I said, “Yes, this is mine. I’m going back up to San Francisco with you and Mom.” I wanted to save my lover’s face. “I packed for him, too.” I pointed to the luggage in the corner. “He’s been talking to friends in Mexico City.”

The African said, “That’s where I’m going, and I’m going today. I will telephone Kwesi Brew. He will meet me.”

I offered to make breakfast. Bailey shook his head. “I’m taking him to a great breakfast place in Venice. You need to make reservations for one from Los Angeles to Mexico City.” Bailey and Mother went into the kitchen so my lover and I could have privacy. We embraced emotionally.

“You could come with me …”

I was already missing him. I said, “Not now, later. But why did you decide so suddenly to go?”

“Your brother. He talked to me, man to man. There seems to be something in my personality that rubs you the wrong way, and I may threaten, or at least weaken, your decision to return to me and Africa. So, at his suggestion, I am leaving you some space. He really loves you. You are lucky. But he understands me, and that’s more important. He has retained more of the African spirit than you or your mother.”

I could have kicked him. He was doing the very thing that had run me away from him in Africa. He so routinely disparaged other people’s importance that he didn’t notice he was degrading me.

“You can come to Mexico or I’ll come back here. I mean to take you back.”

Bailey said he would telephone about the reservation. I wished my love a safe journey and asked to be remembered to Kwesi and Molly Brew.

He was gone.

—

Bailey and Mother left that same day, but not before ragging me about the inane predicament I had created for myself.

“It’s time for the troubleshooters to move on. You must not think you can call out the troops at each rumor of war.”

I didn’t call them to come. Or perhaps I did. Desperation may have been in my voice, must have been there, but I did not ask outright that they come to Los Angeles to rescue me. I was a woman, not a child. My name was spelled double-you oh em a en.

No, I didn’t ask, but I was extremely glad they had come.

Despite acres of ravaged city blocks and hulks of burned-out cars, Los Angeles seemed to have settled back into a satisfied-with-itself air. The cauldron still simmered in a few quarters, but the energy was spent and it would not boil over again anytime soon.

I had finished writing my play, and I asked Frank Silvera for advice. “Find a producer and give it to him. It will be his job to find the money, the theater, a director and a cast.”

I said to him that he had not had to use those tactics; he had done everything himself.

He reminded me that he was the owner, producer and director of Tee Oh Bee.

I searched diligently for a producer, but there was a dearth of them
interested in a new play by an unknown playwright who also happened to be black and female. Few would even read the manuscript. Coming out of the shadow of the Watts revolt, they thought the plot would lean heavily on racial unrest.

My plot in “All Day Long,” admittedly slight, was based on one day in the life of a poor thirteen-year-old black boy who was relocated to the North. Among his many travails were the difficulty of understanding the Northern accent and comprehending how a sofa could secretly contain a bed larger than any he had ever seen.

In my play, the boy worked through his befuddlement at flushing toilets (where did it all go?), the mystery of a refrigerator that stayed cold without a block of ice in it and the gift of fresh water that came through hardened silver tubes. A slim idea, but I remembered my own stupefaction when Bailey and I returned to California as teenagers after ten years in the rural South. In Arkansas we had drawn water from a well, and for baths we had heated it on a wood-burning stove. We slept on mattresses stuffed with feathers from chickens we raised and killed and ate, and used a shack away from the house as a toilet.