A Song Flung Up to Heaven - Maya Angelou [40]
Berdis Baldwin blushed as if we were at Jimmy’s christening and the preacher had declared her son to be the most wonderful child he had ever seen.
Martin King said to me, “And you, Maya. I wanted to talk to you. What are you doing now?”
I said I was writing a play.
“Can you put a bookmark on a page and give me one month of your time? This poor people’s march we are girding up for is not a black march or a white march. This is the poor people’s march. I want us to stay in Washington, D.C., until legislation is passed that will reduce the poverty in our rich country. We may have to build tent cities, and if so, I want to be able to do that.”
“But what can I...”
More people had joined our group of Baldwins and friends.
“I need someone to travel this country and talk to black preachers. I’d like each big church to donate one Sunday’s collection to the poor people’s march. I need you, Maya. Not too many black preachers can resist a good-looking woman with a good idea.”
Mother Baldwin said, “That’s the truth.”
Martin went on, “Also, when anyone accuses me of just being nonviolent, I can say, ‘Well, I don’t know. I’ve got Maya Angelou back with me.’”
Jimmy said, “Yes. Of course she will do it.”
I saw, or thought I saw, how Reverend King was planning to expand the reach and influence of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.
He asked for only one month. I said, “Yes, but only after my birthday. I have to give a party to explain to these hard-nosed New Yorkers why I’m going back to the SCLC. They think I’m much more of an activist, a real radical.”
“What I’m planning is really radical. When is your birthday?”
I said, “April fourth.”
We both nodded.
Twenty-eight
Guy had been Western Airlines’ first black junior executive. He had declared he would keep the job for a specified time then go to Europe. His eighteen-month stay in the U.S. was up. He had bought a used Land Rover and was headed to London to pick it up. He had set aside one day to visit me in New York.
I decided to give a party and invite all the men who had advised and/or cautioned me when Guy was a rambunctious teenager. Since I was a single woman raising a black boy in the United States, I had asked a group of male friends to tell me when they thought I was treating Guy in a way that might endanger his sense of himself.
Many times after gatherings, I would receive phone calls. “Hey, Maya, Guy was playing chess and you made him leave the game. That wasn’t hip.”
“But it was just a game, and we had someplace to go.”
“When a boy is playing a man, it’s never just a game. It is about his manhood. He’s always testing it.”
Or: “You made Guy get up and give his seat to a woman. That wasn’t hip.”
“But it was courteous. I have to teach him courtesy.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t give him a chance to do the right thing on his own. You have to trust his upbringing.”
I had listened and learned, and despite the past three or four rocky years, Guy had grown into a very nice young man. I wanted to show him off to my friends.
Coming from the supermarket I met Hercules, a freedom fighter from Rhodesia whom Guy and I had known in Cairo.
My mind was so filled with Guy’s arrival that I didn’t remember that in Cairo Hercules had tried to be Guy’s buddy, and although I was married, he had attempted to seduce me.
Hercules asked how I was and how Guy was.
I told him Guy was in New York for just one day and that I was giving a party for him that night. I gave Hercules the address and told him he would be welcome.
When I entered the apartment, Guy had a wall-size map spread on the floor.
“Here, Mom, here’s where I want to go.”
It was the Sahara Desert.
I thought he was going back to Ghana, where we had friends.
“No, I’m going to have a photographic safari service from Mauritania back to Morocco.”
My only child? My beloved son with whom I was now well pleased? My heart fell in my chest, but I said nothing. The red and green lines on the map seemed to be moving.
“I’ve planned it out with friends. We’re going to meet up in Spain so we can run