A Song Flung Up to Heaven - Maya Angelou [45]
When my time came, I thought of the saying “You have to fight for the right to play it good.” I described Stamps, Arkansas. Although there is nothing amusing about racial discrimination, the oppressed find funny things to say about it.
“The white folks are so prejudiced in my town, a colored person is not allowed to eat vanilla ice cream.
“And when a white man heard a black man singing ‘My Blue Heaven,’ he called the KKK. They visited the offender and told him that the Molly in the lyric was a white woman, and they wanted to hear how he would sing the song now that he had new information.”
I sang what the black man supposedly sang:
“Miss Molly and y’all
I ain’t in that stuff at all
Y’alls happy in y’alls
Blue heaven.”
There was very little serious conversation. The times were so solemn and the daily news so somber that we snatched mirth from unlikely places and gave servings of it to one another with both hands.
The evening was full. I was on the street before I realized how much I had relaxed in the Feiffers’ home. I told Jimmy I was so glad to laugh.
Jimmy said, “We survived slavery. Think about that. Not because we were strong. The American Indians were strong, and they were on their own land. But they have not survived genocide. You know how we survived?”
I said nothing.
“We put surviving into our poems and into our songs. We put it into our folk tales. We danced surviving in Congo Square in New Orleans and put it in our pots when we cooked pinto beans. We wore surviving on our backs when we clothed ourselves in the colors of the rainbow. We were pulled down so low we could hardly lift our eyes, so we knew, if we wanted to survive, we had better lift our own spirits. So we laughed whenever we got the chance.
“Now, how does your spirit feel?”
I said, “Just fine, thank you.”
Thirty-one
They were from Northern California and looked the part. Jon wore a loose-knit tan sweater with leather elbow patches and tan pants. Verna, a small, neatly made woman, sat comfortably in a light-colored Chanel suit, and Steve wore black slacks and a black V-neck sweater over a white turtleneck shirt that filled in the V.
They had gotten my address from Enrico Banducci, who owned the Hungry I in San Francisco. Enrico and I liked each other, so we had kept in touch over oceans and continents.
“Ms. Angelou, we know you are a writer and, we are told, a very good one.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have anything published?”
I didn’t think it wise to say I had a short story published in Revolución, Cuba’s premier magazine.
I said, “Ah.” Then I added, “I have written some short essays that Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis read on a national radio station.”
“We’d be glad to see them.”
“Yes, they could tell us a lot about your style.”
“When I heard you were looking for a writer, I put a few in my attaché case.” I had borrowed the attaché case from Sam Floyd. “Please tell me what kind of writer are you looking for.”
Jon leaned back and said, “We think it’s past time for our station to do some programs on African-American culture and history. We were told that you have lived in Africa, and you might be the very person to bring it together for us.”
Steve said, “We need an insider’s view.” Well, I certainly was inside.
“I am writing a play now, but I do have some ideas for a documentary.”
“Would the subject of African-American culture be of interest to you?” Steve asked.
“Of course!”
Steve flinched. I did not intend to speak so abruptly, but the question was so inane it caught me off guard.
“Of course,” I said more softly. “In fact, in Ghana I was struck by how much of what I thought was Afro-American culture really had its origin in Africa. Now I know I should have anticipated that, but I did not.”
Jon asked, “Do you think you have enough material?”
“How long do you want the program?”
“No, no,” Verna said, “not a program, we want a series. Ten one-hour programs. Can you do that?”
“Certainly. Surely. I just misunderstood. Ten one-hour programs?” I wondered if there was that much material