The Heart of a Woman

  First I had to understand the thinking of the Savages. They were young black men, preying on other young black men. They had been informed, successfully, that they were worthless, and everyone who looked like them was equally without worth. Each sunrise brought a day without hope and each evening the sun set on a day lacking in achievement. Whites, who ruled the world, owned the air and food and jobs and schools and fair play, had refused to share with them any of life's necessities—and some­where, deeper than their consciousness, they believed the whites were correct. They, the black youth, young lords of nothing, were born without value and would creep, like blinded moles, their lives long in the darkness, under the earth, chewing on roots, driven far from the light.

  I understood the Savages. I understood and hated the system which molded them, but understanding in no wise licensed them to vent their frustration and anger on my son. Guy would not countenance a move to safer ground. And if I insisted, without his agreement, I could lose his friendship and thereby his love. I wouldn't risk that; yet something had to be done to contain the lawless brood of alienated teenagers.

  As the sun's first soft light penetrated the curtains, I tele-

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  phoned my musician lover in Manhattan. I told him quickly what had happened and what I needed. I had awakened him, but he heard my need and said he'd get up and be at my house in an hour or less.

  He stood in the doorway, refusing my invitation to come in for coffee. He handed me a small box, a big grin, and wished me luck. Guy arose, showered, dressed, had a glass of milk, refusing break­fast. He ran out of the house, to warm up before a morning basketball game. He seemed to have forgotten that the Savages were out to get him. I calmed my fears by telling myself that fellows like the Savages were mostly night creatures, and that in the early mornings the streets were at their safest.

  At nine o'clock, I telephoned Mrs. Tolman and told her I'd like to come over and pay her. She said she'd be waiting.

  I took the pistol out of its fitted box and slipped it in my purse. The three blocks between our houses were peopled with workers en route to jobs, men washing cars and children running and screaming in such normal ways. I felt I had gone mad and was living in another dimension, removed totally from the textured world around me. I was invisible.

  Mrs. Tolman introduced me to her buxom daughter, who was breast-nursing a baby. The woman said yes when I asked if she was also Susie's mother.

  I gave Mrs. Tolman cash, counting out the bills carefully, using the time to pacify my throat so that my voice would be natural.

  "Mrs. Tolman, is Susie here?"

  "Why, yes. They just got up. I heard them laughing in her room."

  Mrs. Tolman was happy to oblige.

  Susie stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen. Her face was still sultry from sleep and she was pretty. If I had been lucky enough to have a second child, she could have been my daughter.

  "Susie, I've heard about you, and I'm happy to meet you."

  "Yeah," she mumbled, not too interested. "Nice to meet you too." I caught her as she was turning to go.

  "Susie, your boyfriend is Jerry?" She perked up a little. "Yeah, Jerry's my boyfriend."

  Mrs. Tolman giggled. "I'll tell the world."

  "Where does he live? Jerry."

  "He lives down the street. In the next block." She was pouting again, uninterested.

  I spoke again, fast, collecting her thoughts.

  "I have something for him. Can we go together to his house?"

  She smiled for the first time. "He's not there. He's in my room."

  Her mother chuckled. "Seem like that's where he lives."

  "Could he come out? I'd like to have a few words with him."

  "O.K." She was a sweet play pretty, in her baby-doll shortie nightgown and her hair brushed out around her face.

  I sat with only a silly smile, looking at the nursing mother and the old woman who was pressing out the money in her lap.

  "Here he is. This is Jerry." A young man stood with Susie in the doorway. A too-small T-shirt strained its straps against his brown shoulders. His pants were unbuttoned and he was barefoot. I took in his total look in a second, but the details of his face stopped and held me beyond my mission. His eyes were too young for hate. They glinted with promise. When he smiled, a mouthful of teeth gleamed. I jerked myself away from enchantment.

  "Jerry. I'm Miss Angelou. I'm Guy's mother." He closed his lips and the smile died.

  "I understand that you are the head of the Savages and you have an arrangement with my son. I also understand that the police are afraid of you. Well, I came 'round to make you aware of something. If my son comes home with a black eye or a torn shirt, I won't call the police."

  His attention followed my hand to my purse. "I will come over here and shoot Susie's grandmother first, then her mother, then I'll blow away that sweet little baby. You understand what I'm saying? If the Savages so much as touch my son, I will then find

  your house and kill everything that moves, including the rats and cockroaches."

  I showed the borrowed pistol, then slid it back into my purse.

  For a second, none of the family moved and my plans had not gone beyond the speech, so I just kept my hand in the purse, fondling my security.

  Jerry spoke, "O.K., I understand. But for a mother, I must say you're a mean motherfucker. Come on, Susie." They turned and, huddling together, walked toward the rear of the house.

  I spent a few more minutes talking to Mrs. Tolman about the trip and the weather.

  We parted without mentioning my son, her granddaughter or my trim Baretta, which lay docile at the bottom of my purse.

  Guy brought afternoon heat into the house along with gym clothes for the laundry. He was grinning.

  "We won the game. I made ten shots." I acted interested. "I'm getting pretty good. Coach says I'm among his best athletes." He feinted and jumped.

  "Good, dear. Oh, by the way, did you see any of the Savages at school?"

  He stopped dribbling an imaginary ball and looked at me, surprised, as if I had asked if he had seen an extraterrestrial.

  "Yeah. Sure I saw the guys this morning. I walked to school with some of the members. We talked." He started toward his room, protecting his masculine secrecy.

  "Excuse me, but please tell me what you talked about. I'd really like to know."

  "Aw, Mom." He was embarrassed. "Aw, I just made up some­thing. I said my gang in California always fought to the death, but never on hearsay. And I said I'd meet him and one other person on neutral ground. With knives or fire or anything. I said I wasn't about to run. I told you, Mom, that I'd handle it." He grinned. "What's for dinner?"

  I had to laugh. He was definitely my son, and following my footsteps, bluffing all the way.

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  I had only threatened the young vultures hovering over my son; Guy had offered to literally fight fire with fire. Fortunately we were believed—because maybe neither of us was bluffing.

  Revolution had accepted my short story. That it would appear only in Cuba, and probably in Spanish, did not dilute the fact that I was joining the elite group of published writers. The Harlem Writers Guild celebrated. Rosa Guy, a founding member, who had been in Trinidad when I joined the group, had returned and offered her house for the week's reading and a party in my honor.

  Rosa was tall, beautiful, dark-brown and fiery. She danced, argued, shouted, laughed with an exciting singleness of mind. We were alike in boldness and fell quickly into a close friendship. She had been born in Trinidad, and although she had lived in New York City since she was seven years old, her speech retained a soft Caribbean slur.

  6

  I made my way through the busy streets of Harlem, dressed in my best and wearing just enough make-up. Along the way, I received approval from lounging men or passers-by. "Hey, baby. Let me go with you." "Oowee, sugar. You look good to me." "Let me be your little dog, till your big dog come." I smiled and kept walking. The co
mpliments helped to straighten my back and put a little swing to my hips, and I needed the approval.

  I was en route to the SCLC to meet Bayard Rustin. I had seen him a few times at fund-raising parties since the closing of Caba­ret for Freedom, but we had not had a private meeting since the first time in the organizational offices, and I imagined a thousand reasons why I had been asked to return.

  The receptionist told me Mr. Rustin was waiting. He stood up and leaned over the crowded desk, offering me his hand.

  "Maya, thank you for coming. Have a seat. I'll call Stan and Jack."

  I sat and ran through my mind all the possibilities. There was a discrepancy in the figures from Cabaret for Freedom. They wanted me to produce another revue. They wanted me to write a play about Martin Luther King and the struggle. They didn't know I couldn't type, so they were going to offer me a job as secretary. They needed volunteers and . . .

  Stan and Jack came in smiling (that could mean that the receipts had been O.K., but I wasn't sure).

  We all shook hands, exchanged the expected small greetings and sat down.

  Bayard said, "You speak first, Stanley."

  Stan Levison cleared nonexistent phlegm from his throat. "Uh, Maya, you know we're proud and pleased at the way you handled Cabaret for Freedom."

  Jack interrupted. "The content was brilliant. Just brilliant. The performers . . ."

  Stanley harrumphed and continued, "We think you've got administrative talent." He looked at Bayard.

  Just as I thought. I was going to be offered a typing job.

  Bayard spoke. "We are going to have a shift in the organization and we're going to need someone, a trustworthy person, reliable, and someone who knows how to get along with people." He looked over at Jack.

  It was Jack's turn. "We watched how you dealt with that cast. You kept order; and if anybody knows, I know the egos of actors. You never raised your voice, but when you did speak everyone respected what you had to say."

  He nodded to Stanley, who began to speak immediately.

  "You understand what the struggle is about. You did say you grew up in the South, didn't you?"

  I nodded. Stamps, Arkansas, with its dust and hate and narrow­ness was as South as it was possible to get.

  "We are sorry to say that Bayard is going to be leaving the SCLC."

  I looked at Bayard. His long, handsome face was lined, and his eyes appeared troubled.

  Oh, he was sick. He had to be sick to leave an organization he loved so dearly and had worked for so diligently. I was so saddened by my speculation that I did not connect Bayard's leaving and my invitation to the office.

  "I'm going for a short rest." Distance was already in Bayard's voice, confirming my assessment. "And I'll be joining A. Phillip Randolph and the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters." His face said he was already there.

  I said, "I'm sorry to hear that, Bayard. Is there anything I can do?"

  "Yes." Bayard was back with us, connected again to the office conversation. "We're looking around for someone to take my place. I suggested that you were capable."

  Only shock, which held me viselike, prevented me from jump­ing and running out of the office and down the street. Take Bayard Rustin's place. He had worked for the Quakers, led march­es in Washington, D.C., during the forties, had been to India and worked with the Untouchables. He was educated, famous, and he was a man.

  I didn't say anything because I couldn't speak.

  Stanley said, "When Bayard came up with your name, we were quite surprised. But we've thought about it and come to an agreement. You're the person we would all like to run the office."

  Jack nodded a slight happy smile to me.

  Bayard said, "The position that's being offered to you, Maya, is coordinator for the SCLC. Of course, that's a little like an umbrella. Many chores fall under its spread."

  I blurted out stupidly, "I can't type."

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  The men laughed, and I could have kicked myself for giving them the chance to patronize me.

  Jack said, "You'll have a secretary to do your typing." He laughed again. "And answer your telephone."

  Stanley said, "Now, let's talk salary. You know the SCLC is in need of money and always will be, so we are able to pay only a living wage."

  I was torn. I could think of nothing more gratifying than to work for Martin Luther King, and the Lord knew I needed a living wage. But maybe bodaciousness was leading me to a danger­ous height where I'd find breathing difficult. And another nagging uneasiness intruded upon my excitement: Suppose I was being used to force Bayard out of his position.

  I gathered myself and stood. "Gentlemen, thank you. I am honored by your invitation. I'd like to think about it. I'll tele­phone you tomorrow." And I was out the door, down the stairs and back to the safety of Harlem streets.

  John Killens agreed to meet me at a downtown hotel where he had taken a room to do a rewrite. We sat in the hotel dining room.

  "If you feel that way, call Bayard. Ask him directly. He's a man. Personally, I don't believe he'd have suggested you if he didn't want you to take the job."

  "All right, but what is a coordinator? Can I do it? I'd rather not try than try and fail."

  "That's stupid talk, Maya. Every try will not succeed. But if you're going to live, live at all, your business is trying. And if you fail once, so what? Old folks say, Every shuteye ain't sleep and every goodbye ain't gone. You fail, you get up and try again.

  He could talk, he was already a success. I wasn't convinced.

  "Anyway, coordinator is a nice way of saying fund-raiser. You'll be putting on affairs and sending out mailing lists and speaking and arranging speaking engagements to raise money. There's no mystery to that. And if you're not going to sing again 'ever in life', then this sounds like your best bet."

  Bayard met me between appointments. "If you take the posi-

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  tion or if you refuse it, I'm leaving. Understand now, I will always support Martin. Even with my life. But it's time for a move." He stood beside my barstool at Frank's Restaurant on 125th Street. "I've worked with Randolph for many years and he wants to build a new organization for union workers. I'm not leaving the war, just joining another battle. Take it. You'll do a good job." He patted my shoulder and walked out, taking his mystery and leaving me still not quite decided.

  I heard on the morning radio that some black youngsters had sat down at a dining-room counter in North Carolina and that Martin was in jail again. The telephones rang constantly and the office swirled with activity. Hazel Grey, who had come to work as my assistant, was allotting chores to volunteers as I walked in. She looked up from her desk.

  "Maya, the printing returned and a bunch of kids from Long Island are coming over this morning to stuff envelopes."

  "Good." I walked into my oEce. Hazel followed. "They're coming from an all-white school."

  "Why? Who invited them and how old are they?"

  "High school students. Boys and girls. Their counselor called; he's coming with them." That white youngsters were going to brave Harlem was in itself startling, but that a white adult, in a responsible position, not only agreed, but was willing to officiate in the unusual situation was befuddling. It looked as if the world that would never change was changing.

  I had a brief meeting with the black volunteers.

  "You're going to have some help in an hour or two with jobs you've been unable to complete."

  A grandmother from a local church said, "Bless the Lord."

  I went on, "Thirty young people are on their way, and we have to decide on how they can help us. We may not have this opportu­nity again. Now, you tell me what needs to be done."

  "The mimeograph machine needs to be moved away from the window. The sunshine is melting the ink."

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  "I wish somebody would take all that junk out of the back office."

  "Somebody ought to file that stack of papers in the hall."

  "We need the steps
cleaned. Don't look right to come to Martin Luther King's office and have to walk up dirty steps."

  The counselor looked like an old Burgess Meredith. He was dressed in grey and looked as grey as a winter sky. His casualness was studied and his contrived shamble attractive. He was shorter than most of his charges.

  "Miss Angelou, these students have been excused from their classes. In support of the students sitting in in North Carolina, they chose to give the day to the Martin Luther King organiza­tion. We are ready to do whatever job you assign us."