by Maya Angelou
“Off we go into the wild blue yonder
Singing songs into the blue …”
Each evening as I left for work, the baby-sitter would say, “Our little soldier is bedded down in his bunk, huh?” I wished I could have cashiered her out of my service with dishonorable discharge.
I was dismayed, but I left him alone until I could decide on the best way to counter his sudden affection for violence. I hoped for divine intercession and bided my time. As his birthday approached he began spending time after school in the local five-and-dime store. He wanted a machine gun or a tank or a pistol that shot real plastic bullets or a BB gun. I took him to the local S.P.C.A. pound and told him he could have an animal. A small dog or any cat he wanted. He wandered around the cages, choosing one dog and then rejecting it when he saw a lonelier-looking cat. He finally settled on a small black kitten with rheumy eyes and a dull, dusty coat. I asked the attendant if the cat was healthy. He said it was, but that it had been taken from its mother too early and abandoned. It needed personal care or the pound would have to destroy it. Clyde was shocked. I could barely get him and his ragged cat out of the building before rage broke through. “Mom, did he mean he would have to kill my cat?”
He was clutching the small animal so tightly I thought he himself might put an end to its miserable life.
“Yes, if no one wanted it, they'd do away with it.”
“But Mom, isn't that place called a place for the protection of animals?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” He thought for a few minutes. “Wow! What sort of person would have a job like that? Going around killing animals all the time.”
I saw my opening. “Of course, some people have jobs that order them to go around killing human beings.”
The earlier shock was nothing to the sensation that caught and held him. He nearly squeezed the breath out of the kitten. “What? Who? Who kills human beings?”
“Oh, soldiers, sailors. Pilots who use machine guns and bombs. You know. That's mainly what they're hired for.”
He leaned back in the car, stroking the kitten. Silent, thinking.
I never mentioned killing again and he never asked for another weapon.
Leonard Sillman's Broadway hit New Faces of 1953 came West in 1954. San Francisco, already the home of irreverent comedians, political folk singers, expensively dressed female impersonators, beat poets and popular cabaret singers, took the witty revue to its heart. Don Curry and I attended an early matinée. When Eartha Kitt sang “Monotonous” in her throaty vibrato and threw her sleek body on a sleek chaise longue, the audiences loved her. Alice Ghostly, with “Boston Beguine,” created a picture of a hilarious seduction scene in a seedy hotel lobby where “even the palms seemed to be potted.” Paul Lynde, as a missionary newly returned from a three-day tour of the African continent, and Robert Clary, as the cup-sized Frenchman rolling his saucer eyes, turned farce into a force that was irresistible. Ronnie Graham shared the writing and performed in skits with June Carrol.
I left the theater nearly numb. The quality of talent and quantity of energy had drained me of responses.
My family made plans to come to the Onion for an early show. Mother was coming with Aunt Lottie, and they were bringing a few old-time gamblers from the Fillmore district who never left the Negro neighborhood except to buy expensive suits from white tailors. Ivonne was bringing her daughter, Joyce, and Clyde. I reserved front-row seats and then spent a nervous thirty minutes waiting for them to arrive.
The adults had a loud, happy reunion in the front row. A stranger could easily have deduced that they had not seen each other in months or more probably years.
Mother's friends examined Clyde and complimented him on growing so fast. He beamed and threw back his already wide shoulders. Lottie praised Joyce for “turning into a fine young lady” and the conservatively dressed men who generally dealt the poker at the legally illegal gambling houses smiled at everyone and politely ordered drinks for the party. Ketty Lester, a great beauty who hailed from a small Arkansas town thirty miles north of my home, always opened the show. She sang good songs and sang them well. Phyllis Diller followed her and spread her aura of madness over the stage and onto the audience, and then I closed the round's entertainment. The older people were transfixed by Ketty's singing. She sang “Little Girl from Little Rock” and the Black people who all had Southern roots acted as if the song had been written expressly for Ketty to sing to them. From the rear of the club, I watched as they smiled and nodded to one another and didn't have to be in hearing distance to know they were exchanging “That's right” and “Sure is” and “Ain't that the truth?”
There was only a minute between the last notes of her encore and Phyllis Diller's introduction. Curiosity kept me standing against the back wall, for I wanted to see how my family would take to the frumpy comedienne. Black people rarely forgave whites for being ragged, unkempt and uncaring. There was a saying which explained the disapproval: “You been white all your life. Ain't got no further along than this? What ails you?”
When Phyllis came out onstage, Clyde almost fell off the chair and Joyce started giggling so she nearly knocked over her Shirley Temple. The comedienne, dressed outrageously and guffawing like a hiccoughing horse and a bell clapper, chose to play to the two children (she had four of her own). They were charmed and so convulsed with laughter they gasped for breath, but being well-brought-up Negro youngsters who were told nice children do not laugh loudly they put their hands over their mouths.
I slipped into the dressing room, pleased that at last there was something in the show for everyone. Only Ivonne had appeared less than enchanted with the two acts. But then I knew she was waiting for me to sing.
I walked down the aisle to the stage, registering the applause and hoping that my family was not so busy clapping their hands that they were unable to note that other people were applauding as well. I stood quietly, looking out into the audience (I had enlarged on Lloyd's coaching and now took the time to select faces in the pale light). My breath caught audibly as I recognized Alice Ghostly and Paul Lynde at a table midway in the room. Their presence exhilarated me.
I nodded to the three musicians and began my song.
“I put the peas in the pot to cook
I got the paper and started to look
My horse …”
I heard the “shush” and “hush” from somewhere around my kneecaps, but kept on singing.
“… was running at twenty to one
So me peas and me rice
They get …”
The “tsk's” and the “sh's” were coming from my family. I looked down and saw everyone leaning in toward Clyde. His mouth was open and smiling, and then I heard his voice and knew why everyone was admonishing him. He was singing with me—after all, he had heard every song rehearsed a hundred times at home and now he decided to show me that he, too, could memorize the words. It might have been ignored if he had kept up with me, but his words lagged behind mine by at least one beat.
“I put …”
“I”
“… the peas in …”
“… put the …”
“The pot to cook …”
“peas in …”
Absolutely the first time I had a chance to sing for big-time stars and my son was messing it up. I looked at him, hard this time, and he laughed openly. His eyes nearly shut as his face gave way to his own private joke. He acted as if we were playing a game, like twenty questions or top this, and he was enjoying himself so much that I had to forget about the audience and settle for entertaining my son. I tried to slow down my delivery until he could catch up.
When we finished, still a beat apart, I thanked the audience and added that I had had some unexpected but very welcome help. I introduced my son, Mr. Clyde Bailey Johnson. He stood, turned to the audience and bowed, straight-faced, as he had seen his favorite Bud Abbott do in so many films. I gave Clyde a look that in parent/offspring language meant “That was nice,
but now we've stopped playing.” He translated aptly and was quiet through the rest of my performance.
In the dressing room my family clutched around me, talking in low voices, commending me, relieved that at least I was good enough to spare them embarrassment. They saved their compliments for Ketty and Phyllis paganly believing that too much praise attracted the gods' attention and might summon their powerful jealousy. They also thought I just might get a swelled head if given too many compliments, so instead they gave me sly looks and furtive pats and when no one was looking the slick old men encouraged me to “keep up the good work.” They whispered that Ketty and I were the best on the bill but we had “better be careful” and “take it easy, 'cause white folks get jealous when they see Negroes gettin' ahead.”
They left the club, taking with them the familiar nuances and I was somewhat relieved when they had gone. Insecurity can make us spurn the persons and traditions we most enjoy. I had always loved the gamblers when they sat in Mother's kitchen telling tales of the Texas Panhandle and reliving the excitement of boom towns in Oklahoma. But downtown, where educated whites might overhear the Negro grammar and think less of me because of it, I was uncomfortable.
Alice and Paul came to the dressing room and invited me out for a drink. I accepted immediately. We exchanged compliments and during the intermission we sat in an easy friendliness until the next show began. A few nights later Alice brought other members of the company down to catch my show. One singer told me that Eartha was leaving and Leonard Sillman and Ronnie Graham were auditioning dancer/singers to replace her. She had been bound by a contract which had run out at last and was going to open in one of the big-paying Las Vegas hotels. And would I like to try for the part? Naturally I wanted to audition and just as naturally I was petrified.
The theater stage jutted out aggressively into an empty darkness. Sillman sat erect on a straight-backed chair, apart from, yet fearfully a part of, the proceedings.
I was shivering in the wings, thinking of the excitement Eartha brought to her music when a stage manager asked me if I was going to sing “Monotonous.” The play on words occurred to me and I did not find it funny. I said yes, but did not add that I would not be singing it like Eartha Kitt. She was overtly sexy and famously sensual. I was friendly, gangly and more the big-sister type. No, I would have no chance if I tried imitating the brown velvet kitten.
When I was called I went out onto the stage and put my hands on my hips and a foot on the chaise longue. I sang a few bars, then swirled around and put the other foot on the chaise longue. I sang and danced, skimming over the stage (a dance teacher had told me when I was fourteen years old that a good dancer “occupies space consciously”), always ending back at the seat with an attitude of haughty boredom. My plan was to capture attention by displaying absolute contradiction. Hot dance and cool indifference.
I waited an interminable two days for Leonard Sillman's “reaction.” The phone call came and my heart jumped against my breastbone. I had the job. The famous show-business break had come. Ivonne's friend Calvin bought champagne and we celebrated at her house. I also bought champagne (although I did not care very much for it) and went to Mr. Hot Dogs, where Mom and Lottie and the counter customers helped me to celebrate. I told them that I would join the company for the rest of its tour, then settle down in New York City. My only hesitation was caused by the question of what to do about Clyde. Mom and Lottie said they would take care of him. He could have his breakfast at home as usual and come directly to the restaurant after school, by which time one of them would be going home on the split shift. I accepted that solution, knowing that when I “made it,” as I was sure to do, I would rent a large Manhattan apartment and hire a governess for my son. And when I traveled I would take him along with the governess and possibly a tutor.
My life was arranging itself as neatly as a marble staircase and I was climbing to the stars.
Barry Drew met my announcement with an apoplectic explosion. “Oh no, you're not. What? You can't close. What? We have you under contract, you can't walk out on a contract.”
I countered that I had already accepted the role, that he had the Kingston Trio and Rod McKuen opening at the club and they were as good or better than I. “I will never have another chance like this again. I don't want to spend my life at the Purple Onion.”
He was firm. “You didn't think that when we brought you in here. You're lucky we didn't offer you a year's contract. You'd have signed your life away to get a job like this.”
I cried and begged and hated myself for doing so. He remained unmoved. I ranted about his cruelty, throwing curse words at him like blobs of hot tar, hoping at least to smear his surface.
Barry said coolly, “Sillman not only will not, but cannot, hire you if you break your contract. The union will have you up on charges and you will be blackballed.”
He acted as if he himself had founded the union and written its bylaws just to keep restless and irresponsible singers in their places. His contempt was impenetrable. My anger calmed enough for me to see my predicament. I was totally hemmed in and I left the club and headed home, glowering at every passerby and wrapped up close in sullenness.
I expected sympathy from the rest of my family and received it in generous portions. My mother said she was shocked at Barry's behavior, but then as she always said, “The smallest insect makes the most noise,” and I should keep that in mind. Aunt Lottie stroked me, gave me tea and as if I were sick, offered to make a nice pot of soup. Ivonne told me on the telephone that I was right to be angry, but to consider that the role in the play simply was not for me and as the saying goes, “You can't miss something you never had.”
My pain yielded to the well-worn adages and soft consoling voices. In the absence of anguish I was able to think. It became clear that the roles had been exchanged. Once I had had a need of the Purple Onion facilities and now the Purple Onion had need of my services. The thought that irritated me and planted a seed of disdain was that the managers of the club had not noticed the reversal and had not the grace to appeal to my sense of “Turnabout is fair play.”
I had heard the statement made by wistful whites (and had also made it in my youth myself, hoping to prove worthy of acceptance): “There's nothing as loyal as a Negro. Once you make a friend of one, you have a friend for life.” Like making a pet of a grizzly bear.
My attitude at the club proved either that the statement was fallacious or that I was not a Negro. I withdrew my affection and kept only the shell of cool courtesy.
CHAPTER 12
“Hello, Mrs. Angelos?”
The telephone had rung on a bleary morning. It was a woman's voice.
“Yes?”
“This is Tennessee Kent at Golden Gate School.”
“Yes?” I suppose the wonder in my voice carried over the wires.
“Your son, Clyde, is a student here.”
My son's name brought me immediately clear of sleep. “Yes, I know that.” Suddenly a clear-headed, responsible mother.
“I think possibly you'd like to come to school and discuss something Clyde has said.”
“Is he all right?”
“Oh, yes, don't worry about him.”
I did just that as I dressed.
Since our brief period of estrangement, I had worked very hard impressing Clyde that I was reliable, that in any conflict I was on his side. I had not forgotten the importance of my brother's impartial love during my own lonely childhood, and since my son had no sibling, I had to make him know he had support.
I went to the school and found Clyde sitting forlornly on a straight chair in the corridor. I patted his shoulder and stooped to ask what had happened. His eyes were liquid with unshed tears.
He whispered, “I don't know, Mom. They said I said something bad.”
“Did you?” He had learned some profanity at a day camp the year before and had been quite proud of it for a few weeks.
“I don't know,” he still whispered.
&nb
sp; The two women remained seated when I led Clyde into the office.
“Good morning, Mrs. Angelos,” Miss Kent said. “This is Clyde's teacher, Miss Blum.” A stout, middle-aged woman nodded to me seriously. Miss Kent went on, “And maybe it's better to let Clyde sit outside in the corridor while we …”
“No”—I still had my hand on his shoulder—“this concerns him. I want him to hear the discussion.”
The teachers exchanged looks. I directed Clyde to a chair and sat beside him.
“Well, maybe Miss Blum will tell you what happened,” Miss Kent said.
Clyde's little body was trembling. I patted his knee.
Miss Blum said, “Yesterday was Armed Forces Day and I asked all the children what branch of the service they admired. Some said Navy, others Air Force, others Seabees, but Clyde stood up on his turn and said he'd go to jail first.” She looked at him with such venom I wanted to put my body between her look and my son.
Miss Kent said soothingly, “Now, Mrs. Angelos, we know Clyde didn't get that at home. So, we wanted you to know that somewhere, maybe among his friends, he's picking up dangerous thoughts.”
I thought immediately about Joseph McCarthy. The witch hunt was in full stride and newspapers carried items about blacklists and jobs being jeopardized. Reputations had been ruined and some people imprisoned because they were suspected of harboring dangerous and treacherous thoughts. My own background was not without incident. When I was nineteen, I had enlisted in the Army and been given a date for induction, but had been summarily rejected because it was discovered that during my fourteenth and fifteenth years I had gone to a school which was on the list of un-American activities.
