Some Sing, Some Cry

by Ntozake Shange

  She was a large girl. Tall for her age, taller than Jesse, who everybody in the neighborhood now said favored Jimmy Stewart. She pulled at her hair in the mirror, a thick tangle of kinks and curls, five different textures. The longest hairs grew on the top of her head. The back never seemed to grow at all. Kitchen. Someone’s in the kitchen wid . . . She pinned two fat braids across her skull with an arsenal of hairpins to prevent their penchant for popping loose into what Jesse had deemed “the Bronx view of the Manhattan skyline,” then stared at herself for one more moment, searching for approval, her eyes piercing as a couple of new pennies. The style accented the wideness of her face and flat broad sweep of her nose. The pins were prickling her already. Miss Tavineer appeared again, more plaintive and urgent.

  Cinn sidled down the narrow corridor of her aunt and uncle’s two-flat, now home to a vague carnival of strangers—random boarders, Great Migration strays, island refugees, and stranded intellectuals. After the economy crashed in ’29 it crashed again in ’38. Hence, Miss Tavineer and her nephew Mr. Lohar, Mrs. Lohar, their adopted son, and, in what used to be a walk-in closet, Miss Hadjo, the Ph.D. who had found her belongings cast onto the street by the city marshals. Adelle, a young West Indian woman Elma had taken in ostensibly to help out, shared the bedroom with Cinnamon, Memphis, and Priscilla, Elma and Ray’s youngest. Sissy she was called, the surprise who came along once her parents had stopped trying. Her mop of curls peeked in just as Cinnamon returned to their room. “Mama says you two better hurry up. What do you want for breakfast?”

  Cinnamon Turner longed for one thing, “Deliverance!” She tickled Sissy, who scooted from her giggling, then turned and shook her older sister roughly. “Memphis, get up, you’ll be late, sleepyhead!” Memphis grunted and pulled the covers over her head.

  “Memphis, come on,” Cinn echoed, “we overslept.” Since Baker had gone on the road, there was an uneasy truce between them. After all, he had left them both. Memphis swatted her away. “I didn’t sleep at all, you kickin’ me like that. Leave me alone.”

  By the time Cinn reached the kitchen, Elma and Raymond were already on their second cups of coffee. Elma bustled around the table and bellowed as if straight to God, “Grea-eat Day! Great day, the righteous marching! Gre-eat Day! God’s gonna build up Zion’s wall!”

  Jesse was halfway out the back door. His eyes widened as he stared at Cinn’s hair.

  “Wow! Don’t tell me . . . the Statue of Liberty!” He clucked his teeth and darted, deftly catching the dishrag Cinn threw in his direction.

  “Jesse, you are going to church today, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, later. First gotta help Papa with the truck,” he hollered over his shoulder, his heavy boots pummeling the back steps.

  “Don’t hold that clutch!” Raymond admonished. He had lost yet another job. Inspired by his niece’s New Deal activism, Ray stood in solidarity with the Harlem Negro projectionists against their job cuts. In short order, the then all-white International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees discovered that card member 372 was not quite “black Irish.” With his severance pay, Ray bought a used truck from one of his old bootleg connections to pursue independent contracting. Jesse, on his visits home, always gave the engine an overhaul. Ever-faithful Elma starched and pressed his overalls with the same attention to detail she would give a dress shirt.

  “Somebody in this house needs to go to church,” Elma fussed softly. “To tell Pastor Hawkins why we’re not at the service.” Elma sat Priscilla between her legs and began pulling the girl’s wavy dark hair into plaits, Sissy yelping like a puppy dog with each yank of her mother’s unforgiving comb.

  Grand Hotel, thought Cinnamon as she peered out the window. “Mama El, why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Well, I did, child, two or three times. I figured after you came in so late last night from work, you needed that little bit of rest. Mornin’ to you, too, by the way,” her aunt said without a smile. Cinn folded her hands around a steaming cup of lemon slices in water and blew impatiently on the surface.

  “Papa, me and Cinn are going to hear the great Marian Anderson!” Sissy chirped as she wiggled away from her mother.

  Raymond clanked his spoon against the saucer, imitating the rhythm of his daughter’s nervous motion. “ ‘Me and Cinn?’ What kinda language is that? . . . D.A.R., hmph,” Raymond grunted. “They’re not a bit concerned with Marian Anderson’s singing. Only with colored folk flocking to see her. What did they think we were going to do, bring chicken bones to the theater? The color rub off on the seats?”

  “Raymond, shoosh,” Elma cautioned. “This is a great occasion, a great day, whatever the reason. Cinn, you gotta have more than that tea. Can’t live offa lemon juice. Have some breakfast. It’s going to be a long ride.”

  Cinn remained glued to the window, ignoring the chaotic morning. Adelle, who sat beside her in the windowsill, continued to study the leaves that collected in the bottom of her cup.

  Her eyes half closed and still in her bathrobe, Memphis ambled in and behind her Miss Tavineer. Elma immediately rose and ushered her old Hell’s Kitchen neighbor to a seat. “We have some fresh coffee for you, Miss Tavineer, and some hominy and a bit of salmon if you like. It’s the Lord’s day. He has risen!”

  “How could he not? Even Jesus couldn’t sleep round here,” Memphis snapped.

  “Don’t you blaspheme in this house, young lady,” Elma scolded. “Why aren’t you dressed? Those people will be here any minute.”

  “Not going,” Memphis answered with a yawn.

  “If you’re not going with us, you should be going to church. You can take Miss Tavineer.”

  “As soon as you all leave, I’m goin’ back to bed.” Before her mother could respond, Memphis, the small-boned, sallow child, now grown into a long-legged, amber-eyed bronze filly colt, slinked in a diagonal across the floor with her signature Lindy Hop shuffle, waggin’ her finger in the air.

  Always mischief. Always the party, Cinnamon thought, then said, “There’s still time for you to make it, Memphis, if you hurry.”

  “I’m not interested in ridin’ in some old crowded car for seven hours to hear some woman warble that stuff like you every day. Besides, you’re all going to freeze in your Easter hats.”

  “You are so ignorant.”

  “It’s better than being ignored.”

  “Girls! Not today.” Elma’s exasperation at the testiness between her two girls had no limit. She had warned them never to let a man come between them, between blood, yet here he still was, that Baker fella, though the body was long gone, still a lingering blues. “Memphis, if you’re not going with us, you can escort Miss Tavineer down the street to the church like I told you. And when I get back, your smart-aleck behind better be right here.”

  “Pappuuhhh?!” Memphis stomped over to her father.

  She attempted to hug him. He kissed her gruffly on the forehead and pushed her away. “Hey, hey, do what your mother says. Maybe you can pray your way out of high school.”

  “No use playin’ to your father,” Elma admonished, “we’re together on this.”

  “Your cousin is going to Juilliard,” Raymond added. “You should be happy, you should be proud. You go to the concert, or you go to church.”

  Memphis didn’t need to hear anyone’s opinion today of what she should be doing with her life. She was blue, hiding her disappointment that Baker had just skipped town without so much as a “see yah.” And now all the attention was focused on Cinn. Memphis bounced hard onto the kitchen chair, her bare heels thumping the floor. She folded her arms, imagining random expletives under her breath. “The same darned scales over and over.”

  “They’re called arpeggios.”

  “Cinn can sing all the day long. You’d do well to follow her example.” Raymond continued, “Can’t build a career, bankin’ on winning a couple of contests.”

  Memphis stomped off to the bathroom. “I sing when I want to.”

  “That’s pretty appar
ent.” Her father’s words stung. She slammed the bathroom door.

  Cinn followed and knocked gingerly with a truce offering. “Memphis, you can still go if you hurry.” Memphis turned up the sink water full blast and bellowed at the top of her lungs her own rendition of her latest Billie Holiday favorite, “Why Was I Born?” Knowing her practice-perfect cousin was standing at the door, Memphis would deliberately go off-key, recomposing the melody and lyrics as she went along. She imagined the improvisation would drive her cousin mad.

  “They’re here!” Cinnamon shouted and ran off.

  Cinn reached the front parlor window first. The whole family gathered around her to see. The Minors, who had been impressed with Eudora’s late model Ford, gazed upon the Holsteins’ car that was bigger than their kitchen, a chauffeur-driven Cadillac with brilliant chrome fixtures and a polished navy blue exterior shining like patent leather. The car door opened and from the plush leather seats emerged a driver in a customized caramel gabardine uniform, black riding boots, and a smart black cap.

  “You think they know there’s a Depression goin’ on?” Raymond mused. “I shoulda stayed a bootlegger.”

  Sissy turned to her parents, her mouth agape. “Papa was a bootlegger?”

  Elma cut her eyes toward her husband. “No dear, he’s just seen too many movies in that old job of his.”

  Still wrapped in her towel, Memphis tried to poke her head over the crowd. Immediately she regretted her decision not to go. She saw a glint of satisfaction cross Cinn’s face.

  Sheathed in a light green knit suit with a fur-lined cape and matching muff, Iolanthe greeted the family at the front door to the flat. She blinked quite a bit. Hoping to disguise her dismay that her newly found niece lived in a walk-up, she pretended that an ember had flown into her eye. The young socialite noted Priscilla’s thin coat and Cinnamon’s short jacket. Across the street, a rusty old pickup backfired with a gunshot bang as Raymond and his son pulled off waving. Iolanthe stared with dismay at the hand-painted sign on the truck’s side—MINOR REPAIRS: WE FIX ANYTHING!—a cloud of smoke billowing behind. “Well, shall we get started?” she asked pertly.

  The Holstein car joined a steady caravan of pilgrims journeying to Washington from all points of the country. Because she was a Negro, the Daughters of the American Revolution had refused to allow the great contralto Marian Anderson to perform in Constitution Hall. The D.A.R’s insult to Miss Anderson had made poignantly clear the nation’s disrespect and intransigence toward the Negro people. Among black folk and progressives, the rejection had sparked a quiet revolution of its own.

  “So President Roosevelt arranged for her to sing in front of President Lincoln’s statue,” Elma explained to her youngest child.

  “The greatest voice of the century and these ridiculous women think they have the right to reject her?” Cinnamon fumed. “Against the Daughters of the Revolution stands one lone daughter of the race,” she added, “and we stand with her.”

  The brisk spring day had chilled by late afternoon. Cinnamon shivered in her seat, as much from the cold as from anticipation. Because of the Holsteins’ stature, the Minor family found themselves seated in the row behind the officers of the New York Urban League and the NAACP delegation. Cinn could see Mrs. Roosevelt clearly. She admired the First Lady almost as much as she did Miss Anderson. Mrs. Roosevelt counseled her husband to be responsive to the needs of Negroes and was vigilant in pressing for equity in his policies. That took gumption. Now she was defying the D.A.R., the defining organization of America’s power elite. That took courage.

  Iolanthe took Cinnamon by the hand and began to introduce her to the important New Yorkers in their section. Looking up into her face, the squat powerhouse mayor of New York, Fiorello La Guardia, shook her hand vigorously. “My niece and protégée,” Iolanthe cooed, “on her way to Juilliard. That was she playing Aida in the Negro Opera Company production.”

  The young Reverend Powell eyed her like she was a chocolate drop. “Are we perhaps looking at a future Miss Anderson?” the dashing Harlem leader inquired. Cinn blushed, speechless before the handsome, self-assured activist. The soon-to-be first Negro congressman from New York was as white-looking as her Aunt Elma and tall like she was. “You must come sing before my congregation,” he insisted. Cinnamon stared at him as if hypnotized.

  Iolanthe came to her rescue. “Music runs in the blood. Her mother is Mayfield Turner.”

  “Really?” Powell’s attention spun away from the daughter, breaking the spell. “Mayfield Turner. Haven’t heard that name in ages. Quite a sensation for a while.”

  His look changed, the tone changed, everything changed. The look of admiration had turned into a leer. Cinn took Iolanthe aside. “Miss Iolanthe, I prefer you not mention my mother’s relation, I’d prefer that you introduce me as myself.”

  “Of course, dear,” Iolanthe replied, her face querulous. The conversation left both women on edge.

  It was shortly after five o’clock when, dressed in a heavy wool overcoat, Secretary of the Interior Harold Ickes took the podium. There were slight hints of frost from his breath as he began, “In this great auditorium under the sky, all of us are free . . .” Sitting amidst congressmen, Supreme Court justices, and cabinet members, the image of her father’s murder at the hands of a white mob still fresh, Cinnamon felt anything but free. Miss Anderson stepped forth in a full-length fur and hat. Her signature high cheekbones and strong arched eyebrows, her defined, proud, sculpted lips, gave her the countenance of one’s favorite Sunday school teacher. Her tranquil silence settled the crowd of seventy-five thousand as if they were a group of small children. She began the evening’s performance with “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” emitting a tone of such warmth and purity, her stance so dignified and serene, that it set Cinn afire. With each note of Miss Anderson’s performance, Cinn’s faith in the power of voice to draw people, to awaken them, was reaffirmed. More than speeches, more than protests, more than marches and movements, the authority of a single voice could rise above them all, to stir the winds of change. “Let Freedom ring!” Miss Anderson sang, the r rolling off her tongue like the call of a celestial being, opening the heavens to a common plea. The colored contralto’s voice soared above the crowd, commanding all to rise with her above the pettiness of human life, beyond the differences toward a unified humanity, aching, longing for the divine. She proceeded to sing Donizetti’s “O mio Fernando” from La Favorita and Schubert’s “Ave Maria” with perfect diction and modulation. The woman was majestic. Cinn stood amidst the mesmerized throngs, rapt in silence, moved to tears, but her tears were of a different sort. Before the magnificent Miss Anderson, Cinn felt herself an impostor, undeserving. Her determination now seemed brittleness, her voice trapped. “Cast out from Constitution Hall!” she lamented aloud, when in her heart she became that child again, cast out from a little apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, pages of sheet music dancing in the air along with her clothes and toys, jacks and Mah-Jongg ivories, broken into pieces on the asphalt, her mother screaming, grasping her wrists so tight she thought they would break. “That voice, that great woman! That beautiful voice, still shackled!” she seethed.

  Anderson then offered a medley of spirituals, beginning with “Gospel Train.” When she got to the second selection, Cinnamon’s rage erupted. They can’t be asking her to sing ‘Trampin’?’ ‘Trampin’?’ What’s spiritual about that??!

  Cinn determined from then on that her mission at Juilliard would be to go beyond even the grand concert performance career of Miss Anderson to sing on the world’s great stages of opera. Forget Constitution Hall! Cinnamon Turner set her sights on La Scala, the London Opera, and the Met!

  The Norwegian composer Dvorák in 1893 had declared American Negro spirituals the root of truly new American music. Since the end of the Civil War, the Fisk Jubilee Singers had stunned the world with their repertoire of these indigenous songs by anonymous composers. The great baritone Paul Robeson and tenor Roland Hayes in concert performances
across the globe had through their renditions of American Negro spirituals become social and political ambassadors not only for the struggle of black Americans but for the plight of workers and the oppressed everywhere, linking the resistance of American slaves to resistance struggles throughout the world. But when Miss Anderson launched into that dulcimer spiritual “I’m trampin’, try’na make heaven my home,” Cinnamon Turner could not hear these things. She could not hear the song of resistance. She could not hear the coded message detailing an escape route. She could not hear the determination of a vanquished and impoverished people to have their glory. She, who had gotten her training in the South, who was steeped in the tradition, chafed at the expectation that it would be in every black singer’s repertoire. She herself, who wanted so much to be free, could not bear the longing. There was too much emotion overwhelming her, the wail of all those souls, threatening to sweep her away. She could not hear hunger for freedom or feel the abiding faith that it would come. She could only feel the sting of degradation and passivity. For her these were not the songs of liberation and beauty, but the cobbled-together mumbo-jumbo of slaves, of a people without value or pride, the persistent reminder of a past she would sooner bury and forget.

  The South had given her an advantage. Stressing the value of enunciation, clipping her sentences, Eudora had told her, “You carry the responsibility for the Negro people with every step and every breath. Everywhere you go, you set an example.” The church had given her opportunities to perform, even financial help, passing the plate. She was asked often to sing for weddings, settin’ ups, and funerals. Midnight burials, waiting for the spirit to go home, ’fore the stars finally fade. The people would sit up all night. The walkway lined with torches, a steady stream of visitors, ragged and bedraggled Holy Rollers, the droning rumble of their feet standing in for ancestral drums. The worst one, the last, a young child had died. The mother got up—dancing, got happy, jumped up, body gyrating and bouncing, shifting into hysterical spasms, up and down the aisle of torches, her skirt flying dangerously close to the flames, the people unable to contain her body, buoyant with the light of the spirit come upon her. “Don’t get tired, don’t give up . . . Lord, take my child!”