The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [115]
Joe said, “I will ask this side of the room to argue for our sister, Maya, and this side of our brother, Vus.”
I shook myself away from the numbing shock and stood up.
“Excuse me, Joe, but I'm not on trial. I'm going home.” Joe spoke to me over the undertone of disapproval.
“Sister, you are going to stay in Africa. You have a son and a name. If you can sit through this palaver, the outcome will be news in Africa. You know, Maya, our people do not count on papers or magazines to tell us what we need to know. There are people here from Ghana, Mali, Guinea, Nigeria, Ethiopia and Liberia. Sister, try hard and sit down.”
Years before I had understood that all I had to do, really had to do, was stay black and die. Nothing could be more interesting than the first, or more permanent than the latter. In truly critical moments I reminded myself of those discoveries. I walked back and sat down beside Vus, who had become a large, black stranger.
Joe Williamson placed a dining-room chair in the middle of the half-circle, talking all the while.
“The group from Maya, going right, will defend our brother. People left of Vus will support our sister. And please remember, folks, we are the only family they have in this strange land.”
I looked to my right, and my heart raced. My friends, Banti, Kebi, Margaret Young, a Nigerian close friend, and Jarra would be arguing for Vus. I turned and looked across to the other side and saw three infamous lechers, a few old indifferent men and three women whom I didn't know well. My team looked hopeless.
Joe took his seat and spoke to me.
“Sister, tell your complaint. Tell your side.”
Black Americans had no custom of publicly baring the soul. In old-time churches, people used to rise and complain about the treatment they had received from fellow members, but those conferences had died out, leaving only the memory in ribald jokes.
Mrs. Jackson stood up in church and reported, “Reverend, brothers and sisters. I accuse Miss Taylor of going 'round town saying my husband has a wart on his private part.” The congregation's “uh huh huhs” sounded like drumrolls. Miss Taylor got up and said, “I have to speak to clarify what I said. Brothers and sisters, I did not say that Mr. Jackson had a wart on his private part. I never did. 'Cause I never saw it. What I said, and this is all I said, was it felt like it was a wart.”
There was no precedent in my life for airing private affairs. I held myself still and erect.
Joe repeated, “Sister, tell your part. Why do you find our brother impossible as a husband?”
I looked at Joe, then at my dear friends, lined up in Vus's defense. Banti, Kebi and Margaret know all my complaints, I had cried in their arms, and laid my head on their laps uncounted times. Now they sat with straight flat faces, as if we were strangers. I turned to look at the company gathered in my behalf. Their faces were also cold, unsupportive and strange. I was alone again, but then, since I was already black, all I had to do was die.
I said, “The man stuffs his thing in any opening he finds. I am faithful, he is not.”
A few coughs fell from the mouths of my squad, and Vus's troop twitched and cleared their throats.
“I slave my ass off.” (African women hardly ever used profanity in mixed company, but I wasn't strictly an African, and, after all, they had gathered to hear me speak and I was a black American. Mentioning slavery in present African company was a ploy. Their forefathers had been spared, or had negotiated for the sale of my ancestors. I knew it and they knew it. It gave me a little edge.)
“I put money into the house. At ten o'clock I go alone to the Broadcast Building to narrate an essay, and I'm paid one pound. Vus spends money as if we are rich. He expects me to be faithful and steady and he comes home smelling of cheap perfume and a whore's twat.” They may not have heard