A Song Flung Up to Heaven - Maya Angelou [2]
Each time I gave up my chicken for his lamb, I ate less. When I gave up a visit with friends to stay home with him, I enjoyed him less. And when I joined him, leaving my book abandoned on the desk, I found I had less appetite for the bedroom.
“You Americans can be bullheaded, stupid and crazy. Why would you kill President Kennedy?” He didn’t hear me say, “I didn’t kill the president.”
My return to the United States came at the most opportune time. I could leave my son to his manly development hurdles; I would leave my great, all-consuming love to his obedient subjects; and I would return to work with Malcolm X on building the Organization of African-American Unity.
By the time we arrived in New York, I had discarded my vilification of the white racists on the plane and had even begun to feel a little more sorry for them.
I was saddened by their infantile, puerile minds. They could be assured that as soon as we American blacks got our country straight, the Xhosas, Zulus, Matabeles, Shonas and others in southern Africa would lead their whites from the gloom of ignorance into the dazzling light of understanding.
The sound in the airport was startling. The open air in Africa was often loud, with many languages being spoken at once, children crying, drums pounding—that had been noise, but at New York’s Idlewild Airport, the din that aggressively penetrated the air, insisting on being heard, was clamor. There were shouts and orders, screams, implorings and demands, horns blaring and voices booming. I found a place beside a wall and leaned against it. I had been away from the cacophony for four years, but now I was home.
After I gathered my senses, I found a telephone booth.
I knew I was not ready for New York’s strenuous energy, but I needed to explain that to my New York friends. I had written Rosa Guy, my supportive sister-friend, and she was expecting me. I also needed to call Abbey Lincoln, the jazz singer, and her husband, Max Roach, the jazz drummer, who had offered me a room in their Columbus Avenue apartment that I had refused. But most especially, I had to speak to Malcolm.
His telephone voice caught me off guard. I realized I had never spoken to him on the telephone.
“Maya, so you finally got here. How was the trip?” His voice was higher-pitched than I expected.
“Fine.”
“You stay at the airport, I’ll be there to pick you up. I’ll leave right now.”
I interrupted. “I’m going straight to San Francisco. My plane leaves soon.”
“I thought you were coming to work with us in New York.”
“I’ll be back in a month...” I explained that I needed to be with my mother and my brother, Bailey, just to get used to being back in the United States.
Malcolm said, “I had to leave my car in the Holland Tunnel. Somebody was trying to get me. I jumped in a white man’s car. He panicked. I told him who I was, and he said, ‘Get down low, I’ll get you out of this.’ You believe that, Maya?”
I said yes, but I found it hard to do so. “I’ll call you next week when I get my bearings.”
Malcolm said, “Well, let me tell you about Betty and the girls.” I immediately remembered the long nights in Ghana when our group sat and listened to him talk about the struggle, racism, political strategies and social unrest. Then he would speak of Betty. His voice would soften and take on a new melody. We would be told of her great intelligence, of her beauty, of her wit. How funny she was and how faithful. We would hear that she was an adoring mother and a brave and loving wife.
Malcolm said, “She is here now and making a wonderful dinner. You know she is pretty and pregnant. Pretty pregnant.” He laughed at his own joke.
I said, “Please give her my regards. I must run for my plane. I’ll call you next week.”
“Do that. Safe trip.”
I hurriedly telephoned Max Roach and Abbey Lincoln to say that I was home. They also offered to pick me up from the airport, but I told them I