The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [26]
“Yes, and how can the SCLC help you?” He saw my indecision. In desperation, I leaped into my prepared speech. “I want to say first, that not only do I and my colleague, Godfrey Cambridge …”
“Oh the comedian, Cambridge. Yes, I've heard him.” Levi son leaned back in his chair.
“… appreciate and support …” I cut out the part about Bayard Rustin and finished with “and raise money for the SCLC.”
Levison moved forward. “Where will the play be shown?”
“Uh.” Dammit, caught again. If only Bayard Rustin had been in the office, I could have counted on a few minutes during which he would thank me for realizing who he was, and appreciating what he had done.
“We don't have a theater yet, but we will have one. You can bet your life we will get one.” Insecurity was making me angry.
“Let me call in someone. He's a writer and might be able to help you.” He picked up the telephone. “Ask Jack Murray to step into the office, please.” He hung up the phone and asked, with only a little interest, “And, what do you know about the SCLC?”
“I was at church yesterday. I heard Dr. King.”
“Oh yes. That was a great meeting. Unfortunately, we didn't take in the money we expected.”
The door opened, and a little man wearing brown slacks and an open shirt and sports jacket walked in, in a hurry. “Jack Murray” had sounded black, but he was as white as Stanley Levison.
“Yeah, Stanley. What is it?”
Levison stood, and waving his arm in my direction, said, “This is Miss Angelou. Maya Angelou. She had an appointment with Bayard, but he was called away. She's got an idea. Maya, this is Jack. He also works with the SCLC.”
I stood and offered my hand to Murray, and watched a little-boy's smile cross his middle-aged face.
“Glad to know you, Miss Angelou. What's your idea?”
I explained that we wanted to stage a play, a kind of revue, using whatever good talent available, and that we planned to develop the show on the theme of liberation.
Stanley Levison laughed for the first time. “I was right to call in Jack. Do you know anything about Pins and Needles?” I didn't, so he told me that Jack Murray had been involved with Pins and Needles in the thirties and it became a Broadway show, but based on the problems of the working class.
“Do you have a theater?” Again, I had to confess that we, my colleague and I, hadn't got that far.
“How large is the cast? How long do you need for rehearsal?” His tone was friendly, but if I admitted that so far our plans had only gone as far as an emotional conversation on the banks of the Hudson, the two white men would think me childish.
I said, “We have a number of actors and on-call singers. My friend is out making contacts.” I blathered on about the need to keep the cast good, but small, so that there would be a substantial amount of money left over for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.
When Jack Murray got a chance to speak, he repeated, “How long will you need for rehearsal?” I spoke the first thought that offered itself to me. “Two weeks.”
Stanley coughed. “That's a very short rehearsal period, isn't it?”
I looked at him and he seemed as solid as a bank building. Maybe he was right. Two weeks might not be enough time, but my ego was at stake.
“We're going to use black entertainers. Professional people.” It was my intention to stop the irritating interrogation and put the two white men back in the white race where they belonged.
Stanley cleared his throat and chuckled. “Oh, Miss Angelou, you're surely not trying to tell us that Negro entertainers don't need the same time as white entertainers because they are just naturally endowed with talent?”
That was exactly what I had said, and exactly what I meant. But it sounded wrong coming out of the mouth of a white man. Arrogance prevented me from retraction and was about to lead me into a corner from which there was no escape.
“Black entertainers have had to be ten times better than anyone else, historically …”
Jack Murray's voice floated softly into my tirade.