Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [43]
I expected sympathy from the rest of my family and received it in generous portions. My mother said she was shocked at Barry's behavior, but then as she always said, “The smallest insect makes the most noise,” and I should keep that in mind. Aunt Lottie stroked me, gave me tea and as if I were sick, offered to make a nice pot of soup. Ivonne told me on the telephone that I was right to be angry, but to consider that the role in the play simply was not for me and as the saying goes, “You can't miss something you never had.”
My pain yielded to the well-worn adages and soft consoling voices. In the absence of anguish I was able to think. It became clear that the roles had been exchanged. Once I had had a need of the Purple Onion facilities and now the Purple Onion had need of my services. The thought that irritated me and planted a seed of disdain was that the managers of the club had not noticed the reversal and had not the grace to appeal to my sense of “Turnabout is fair play.”
I had heard the statement made by wistful whites (and had also made it in my youth myself, hoping to prove worthy of acceptance): “There's nothing as loyal as a Negro. Once you make a friend of one, you have a friend for life.” Like making a pet of a grizzly bear.
My attitude at the club proved either that the statement was fallacious or that I was not a Negro. I withdrew my affection and kept only the shell of cool courtesy.
CHAPTER 12
“Hello, Mrs. Angelos?”
The telephone had rung on a bleary morning. It was a woman's voice.
“Yes?”
“This is Tennessee Kent at Golden Gate School.”
“Yes?” I suppose the wonder in my voice carried over the wires.
“Your son, Clyde, is a student here.”
My son's name brought me immediately clear of sleep. “Yes, I know that.” Suddenly a clear-headed, responsible mother.
“I think possibly you'd like to come to school and discuss something Clyde has said.”
“Is he all right?”
“Oh, yes, don't worry about him.”
I did just that as I dressed.
Since our brief period of estrangement, I had worked very hard impressing Clyde that I was reliable, that in any conflict I was on his side. I had not forgotten the importance of my brother's impartial love during my own lonely childhood, and since my son had no sibling, I had to make him know he had support.
I went to the school and found Clyde sitting forlornly on a straight chair in the corridor. I patted his shoulder and stooped to ask what had happened. His eyes were liquid with unshed tears.
He whispered, “I don't know, Mom. They said I said something bad.”
“Did you?” He had learned some profanity at a day camp the year before and had been quite proud of it for a few weeks.
“I don't know,” he still whispered.
The two women remained seated when I led Clyde into the office.
“Good morning, Mrs. Angelos,” Miss Kent said. “This is Clyde's teacher, Miss Blum.” A stout, middle-aged woman nodded to me seriously. Miss Kent went on, “And maybe it's better to let Clyde sit outside in the corridor while we …”
“No”—I still had my hand on his shoulder—“this concerns him. I want him to hear the discussion.”
The teachers exchanged looks. I directed Clyde to a chair and sat beside him.
“Well, maybe Miss Blum will tell you what happened,” Miss Kent said.
Clyde's little body was trembling. I patted his knee.
Miss Blum said, “Yesterday was Armed Forces Day and I asked all the children what branch of the service they admired. Some said Navy, others Air Force, others Seabees, but Clyde stood up on his turn and said he'd go to jail first.” She looked at him with such venom I wanted to put my body between her look and my son.
Miss Kent said soothingly, “Now, Mrs. Angelos, we know Clyde didn't get that at home. So, we wanted you to know that somewhere, maybe among his friends, he's picking up dangerous thoughts.”
I thought immediately about Joseph McCarthy.