Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [105]
“Are you troubled?”
I started to cry. Yes, I was troubled; why else would I be here? But what could I tell this man? Would he understand Arkansas, which I left, yet would never, could never, leave? Would he comprehend why my brilliant brother, who was the genius in our family, was doing time in Sing Sing on a charge of fencing stolen goods instead of sitting with clean fingernails in a tailor-made suit, listening to some poor mad person cry her blues out? How would he perceive a mother who, in a desperate thrust for freedom, left her only child, who became sick during her absence? A mother who, upon her return, felt so guilty she could think of nothing more productive than killing herself and possibly even the child?
I looked at the doctor and he looked at me, saying nothing. Waiting.
I used up my Kleenex and took more from my purse. No, I couldn't tell him about living inside a skin that was hated or feared by the majority of one's fellow citizens or about the sensation of getting on a bus on a lovely morning, feeling happy and suddenly seeing the passengers curl their lips in distaste or avert their eyes in revulsion. No, I had nothing to say to the doctor. I stood up.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“If you'd like to make another appointment—”
I closed his door and asked the receptionist to call a taxi.
I gave the driver the address of Wilkie's studio. I arrived in the middle of a lesson. He took one look at me and said, “Go into my bedroom. There's a bottle of scotch. I have another student after this one, then I'll cancel for the rest of the afternoon.”
I sat on his bed and drank the whiskey neat and listened to the vocalizing in the next room. I didn't know what I was going to say to Wilkie, but I knew I would feel better talking to him than to that doctor, to whom I would be another case of Negro paranoia. I telephoned home and told Lottie where I was and that I'd be home soon.
The piano was finally silent and Wilkie opened the bedroom door. “O.K., old sweet nappy-head thing. Come on and talk to Uncle Wilkie.”
I walked out into the studio and collapsed in his arms.
“Wilkie, I can't see any reason for living. I went to a psychiatrist and it was no good. I couldn't talk. I'm so unhappy. And I have done such harm to Clyde …”
He held me until I finished my babbling.
“Are you finished? Are you finished?” His voice was stern and unsympathetic.
I said, “Well, I guess so.”
“Sit down at the desk.”
I sat.
“Now, see that yellow tablet?” There was a legal-size yellow pad on the blotter. “See that pencil?”
I saw it.
“Now, write down what you have to be thankful for.”
“Wilkie, I don't want silly answers.”
“Start to write.” His voice was cold and unbending. “And I mean start now! First, write that you heard me tell you that. So you have the sense of hearing. And that you could tell the taxi driver where to bring you and then tell me what was wrong with you, so you have the sense of speech. You can read and write. You have a son who needs nothing but you. Write, dammit! I mean write.” I picked up the pencil and began.
“I can hear.
I can speak.
I have a son.
I have a mother.
I have a brother.
I can dance.
I can sing.
I can cook.
I can read.
I can write.”
When I reached the end of the page I began to feel silly. I was alive and healthy. What on earth did I have to complain about? For two months in Rome I had said all I wanted was to be with my son. And now I could hug and kiss him anytime the need arose. What the hell was I whining about?
Wilkie said, “Now write, ‘I am blessed. And I am grateful.’”
I wrote the line.
“It's time for you to go to work. I'll call you a cab. Stop at the theatrical agency on your way home and tell them you're ready to go to work. Anywhere, anytime, and for any decent amount of money.”
When he walked me to the door he put his arm around my shoulders. “Maya,