The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou (97 page)

“I’ve got a gun too, and a license to carry it.”

But for my arrogance, our relationship would never have progressed beyond the reach of our carnal appetites.

The Writers Guild had met at Rosa’s apartment and people were arranging rides to a late-night party in Harlem. I declined, saying Thomas was coming to take me home.

Someone suggested I bring him to the party, but before I could respond, another writer asked if it was true that fella was a bail bondsman. He was a bail bondsman, so what? The woman said, “Humph,” and hunched her shoulders. “Well, I hope you’re not getting serious about him. Because he sure as hell wouldn’t be welcome in my house. They’re as bad as cops. Living on poor folks’ misery.”

I had no time to think of the consequences of what I was going to say. The woman, of course, was not my friend, but even a polite acquaintance would not have tried to embarrass or challenge me in public. She had never bought me a pound of dried lima beans and was utterly unable to make me ugly up my face between the sheets. She could blow it out of her behind.

“I’m marrying him, and I’m tearing up your invitation to the wedding.”

John Killens turned. “What the hell you say?”

Rosa, who knew all my secrets, widened her eyes and asked, “Since when?”

I dealt with all the questions with a coolness I didn’t feel.

It was true that Thomas had not asked me to marry him, and Guy had no special regard for him. I knew I wasn’t in love with him, but I was lonely and I would make a good wife. I could cook, clean house and I had never been unfaithful, even to a boyfriend. Our lives would be quiet.

I was getting used to the idea and even liking it. We’d buy a nice house out on Long Island, where he had relatives. I would join a church and some local women’s volunteer organizations. Guy wouldn’t mind another move if he was assured that it was definitely the last one. I would let my hair grow out and get it straightened and wear pretty hats with flowers and gloves and look like a nice colored woman from San Francisco.

When I told Thomas that I wanted to get married, he nodded and said, “I’ve been thinking about that myself. I guess it’s time.”

Guy accepted the news gravely. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “I hope you’ll be happy, Mother.” He turned away, then back again, “We’ll be moving again, won’t we?”

I lied about my daydreams, reminding him that Thomas had a large apartment only blocks from our house, which meant that he wouldn’t have to change schools again. I thought to myself, maybe we wouldn’t buy our house on Long Island until Guy went away to college.

My announcement was cheerfully received at the office. Hazel hugged me and said, “There’s nothing like having a good man.” She was happily married, so I expected her response.

Abbey looked at me quizzically. “Maya Angelou, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t, but I’m going to pray a lot.”

She laughed and promised to pray with me. She was diligently minding her new marriage, keeping her penthouse immaculate and recording complicated music with Max.

Rosa was practical. “He’s not jealous, is he? If you marry a jealous man, life will be hell.” I told her he wouldn’t have any reason for jealousy.

Rosa was writing every day, coping with her large rambunctious family, being courted by handsome African diplomats and working in a factory to pay her rent.

My two closest friends were too busy with the times and their own lives to talk me out of my rash decision.

Thomas gave me an engagement ring and said we’d marry in three months. We would be married in Virginia, his home state, in the church where his parents were married. Then we would drive to Pensacola, Florida, because he always wanted to fish in the Gulf of Mexico. Guy would stay with his family while we were away.

Obviously he didn’t require my agreement, since he didn’t ask for it. The decision to marry me automatically gave him authority to plan all our lives. I ignored the twinge which tried to warn me that I should stop and do some serious thinking.

I had never seen Virginia or Florida. Travel was a lovely thing to look forward to.

Time and opportunity were remolding my life. I closed my lips and agreed, with a new demureness.

One Monday morning Hazel told me that over the weekend she had heard a South African freedom fighter speak. He was so thorough and so brilliant that even the biggest fool in the world had to see that Apartheid was evil and would have to be brought down. His name was Vusumzi Make (pronounced Mah-kay).

A few volunteers, standing in the outer offices, had also heard the speaker. They joined in the conversation with added compliments.

“The smartest and calmest African I’ve ever heard.”

“A little fat, but cute as he wants to be.”

“Reminded me more of Dr. King than anybody I’ve ever seen.”

I asked his name again.

Hazel said she had written it down and that the man was in the United States to petition at the United Nations against South Africa’s racial policy. He was speaking again later in the week. Maybe we could attend the lecture together. I said maybe.

A mound of cardboard boxes stood against my office wall. I opened them all. Each contained a beautiful piece of luggage and a note: “Best Wishes to My Bride.” I carried pleasure to my desk.

Frank Sinatra, Peter Lawford, Joey Bishop and Sammy Davis, Jr., had agreed to give a benefit performance for the SCLC at Carnegie Hall. Jack O’Dell, a highly respected organizer, had joined the organization, and he was breaking down the hall’s seating. Stanley, Jack, Jack Murray and I had to separate sections and price seats.

Hotel accommodations had to be arranged for the famous “Rat Pack” and its entourage. Musicians’ union officials had to be contacted and tickets drafted and ordered. High-paying patrons needed to be solicited and church groups contacted and asked to take blocks of seats.

We were working late on Friday afternoon when Hazel said she had to go. She reminded me that Make was speaking and she was meeting
her husband across town early so they could get good seats. (She knew my being able to go along was out of the question.)

As she left, I asked her to take notes for me and tell me all about it on Monday.

Work took over my weekend. I saw Guy only during the few hours on Saturday when he came to the office to join other black and white young volunteers. Thomas was working a night shift, so I took a late-night subway to Brooklyn and walked the quiet streets home. Guy’s note on the dining-room table informed me that he was at a party. “Home at 12:30
A.M
.” Twelve-thirty was absolutely the limit. After all, he was barely fifteen. I was strict and he was usually agreeable. I would lie across my bed with a book and stay awake to make sure that he honored his note.

Morning found me in the same position and Guy sleeping innocently in his bedroom.

Make had been more eloquent than the previous time. Hazel said a heckler had asked why sixteen million Africans allowed three million whites to control them, reminding Make that we black Americans were only a tenth of the United States population, but we had stood up and fought back ever since we were brought here as slaves.

Hazel said Make was devastating. First, he spoke of the black American struggle. He knew the history better than most black Americans. He talked about Denmark Vesey and Gabriel, and all the known leaders of slave rebellions. He quoted Frederick Douglass and Marcus Garvey. He said that Dr. DuBois was the father of Pan-Africanism, having attended the Pan-African Congress in Paris in 1919, where he stated clearly the idea of a free and united Africa. Make then, systematically, explained how Africa was bludgeoned by slavery, having her strongest sons and daughters stolen and brought to build the country of the slaves. He spoke of colonialism, the second blow that brought the continent to abjection. He said the spirit of Africa lives, but it is most vital in its descendants who have been struggling away from the motherland. At home, in South Africa, the people needed help and encouragement from those of us who, knowing
slavery firsthand, had found the oppressor to be a formidable but opposable foe.

I made a note to go to hear Make the next time he spoke. Again, my responsibilities crowded out my intention. John Killens phoned on Thursday morning.

“Maya, I heard Make last night. Kind of expected to see you there.”

I explained that we were nearing the Carnegie Hall date.

“Well,” he said, “if you’re free tomorrow night, come over to my place. Grace and I have asked a few people over to meet him.”

“I’m working late tomorrow night, too.”

“Come anytime. We’ll get started around eight. We’ll probably be going on until one or two. Make is the representative of the Pan-African Congress. That’s the radical organization, but he’s coming with Oliver Tambo, the head of the African National Congress. The ANC is to the PAC what the NAACP is to the Black Muslims. The two get along, though. Try to make it.”

Before leaving for work the next morning, I woke Guy and asked him to go to John’s for dinner, and said I would meet him there at nine-thirty.

Chagrin at being a capricious and too-often-absent mother would get me to the Killens’ house.

I left the office a little early, and after John opened the door, I walked through the milling crowd of acquaintances and strangers to find Guy, Chuck, Barbara and Mom Willie in the kitchen. Guy looked up, then back at his watch and grinned.

Mom Willie offered me food, but I declined and said I’d better go shake hands with the honored guests.

Guy said, “He’s going to knock you out, Mom. We talked a little. He’s more brilliger than the slighy toves.” Guy was working so hard to appear grown-up, I was surprised to hear him use his favorite childhood phrase. Make had made my reserved son relax and talk like a child again.

I went to the living room and greeted Paule and John Clarke, Sarah Wright and Rosa.

The air in the room crackled like static. John Killens introduced me to a small, trim dark man.

“Maya Angelou, meet Oliver Tambo, a warrior from South Africa.” Tambo shook my hand and bowed.

John continued, “And come here and meet Vusumzi Make, another South African warrior.”

Make’s appearance surprised me. I had imagined him very tall and older. He was three inches shorter than I and his baby face was surrounded by fat. He had broad shoulders and a wide waist, all encased in a beautifully cut pin-stripe suit, and he was in his early thirties.

“Miss Angelou. Glad to meet you. You represent the black hero Martin King, as I represent the South African black hero Robert Sobukwe. Hazel Grey has been telling me about you. If we had not met I would have known you anyway. I’ve met Guy.”

His accent was delicious. A result of British deliberateness changed by the rhythm of an African tongue and the grace of African lips. I moved away after smiling, needing to sit apart and collect myself. I had not met such a man. He was intense and contained. His movements were economical and delicate. And he didn’t seem to know that he was decidedly overweight. John’s introduction was probably apt. He was a warrior, sure of his enemies and secure with his armament.

Rosa left her African diplomat to join me on the couch. “You met Make. He’d been asking to meet you. Take it easy, kid.” She smiled for me alone and went back to her escort.

Paule Marshall stood in front of me. “Listen, Maya Angelou. What did you do to Make? He says he wants to know you better.”

I told her I only said hello.

She said, “Must have been a hell of a hello. He asked me how well I knew you and if you were married.” Paule laughed and flicked her eyes. “I didn’t say a word. It’s up to you.”

John and Grace corralled their guests back to the living room, where everyone found seats. After the chairs and sofas filled, people rested on footstools or wedged themselves between couches on the floor. John introduced Oliver Tambo, who talked about South Africa, the ANC and its leader, Chief Albert Luthuli, in terse and controlled anger.

We applauded the man and the cause that brought him to the United States. Then John introduced Mr. Make, and my love no longer was in the hands of Thomas Allen.

Make started talking from a seated position, but passion lifted his voice and raised him out of the chair. He had been a defendant charged with treason in the trials after the Sharpville Massacre. The Africans, ANC and PAC members, along with people who belonged to neither organization, had met in 1958 to oppose oppression in their country. They had been inspired by Martin Luther King and the SCLC. (He looked over at me and nodded.) They had been encouraged by Malcolm X and the Muslims to set themselves apart from their oppressors.

When he finished, he asked for questions and sat down, dabbing at his face with a cloud of white handkerchief.

My first reaction was to wish I could be the white cloth in his dark hand touching his forehead, digging softly in the corners of his lips. Intelligence always had a pornographic influence on me.

He asked for questions and was immediately satisfied.

“Which organization was the most popular in South Africa?” Was he really flirting with me?

“Did Luthuli and Sobukwe get along?” Did fat men make love like thin ones?

“When would the average South African become politically aware?” Was he married?

“What could we, as black Americans, do to speed along the struggle?” How long was he going to stay in New York?

Make and Tambo shared the questions, volleying answers back and forth with the ease of professional tennis players.

Make turned. “Doesn’t Miss Angelou have a question?” Stage experience kept me from squirming. All attention shifted to me and I shoved my real questions to the back of my head and asked, “Mr. Make, would it be possible to solve the South African problem with an employment of nonviolence?”

He stood and walked to my corner. “That which works for your Reverend King cannot work in South Africa. Here, whether it is
honored or not, there is a Constitution. You at least have laws which say, Liberty and justice for all. You can go to courts and exact an amount of success. Witness your Supreme Court ruling of 1954. In South Africa, we Africans are written out of all tenets dealing with justice. We are not considered in the written laws dealing with fair play. We are not only brutalized and oppressed, de facto, we are ignored de jure.”