The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [27]
I was grateful that his words were apt and his voice soothing; in the next eighteen months I was to find myself frequently in debt to Jack Murray for throwing lifelines to me as I floundered in seas of confusion or frustration.
“Do you know the Village Gate?” Every performer in the United States had heard of the Greenwich Village night club where Lenny Bruce, Nina Simone and Odetta might be found playing on the same night.
Murray said, “Art D'Lugoff owns it and he's an okay guy. He usually has a few unbooked days during the summer. After your plans are a little further along, maybe we could have a little meeting with Art. How soon do you expect to be ready?”
“All we needed was permission from your organization. We'll be ready in a few days. When can I see Mr. Rustin?”
There was something wrong with asking white men for permission to work for my own cause.
Levison looked at me and without answering, picked up the telephone. “Has Mr. Rustin come in? Good. Let me speak to him.”
I waited while he continued. “Bayard, I've got a young woman in here who is going to put on a play to raise money for the organization … Right. She had an appointment. She's coming in to see you now.”
I shook hands with both men and walked out of the office. Stanley Levison didn't say “wants to put on a play” but “is going to put on a play.” An oblique permission, admittedly, but it was what I came for.
Bayard Rustin stood, shook my hand and welcomed me.
“Miss Angelou? Ah hum, sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. Stanley says you have a play. Have a seat. Care for coffee? Have you got money for your production? Cash? A theater? What is the play's message? While we at SCLC are grateful for all efforts, understandably what the play says or doesn't say can be of more importance than the money it raises. You understand that?” Words stepped out of his mouth sharply, fast, clipped in the accent of a British Army sergeant. He was tall, lean, dark brown and good-looking.
I explained again, revealing a little more to Bayard than I had to Stanley or Jack. Neither Godfrey nor I had any experience at producing a show, but we knew people and if the SCLC gave us the go-ahead, that's exactly what we would do. I added that Jack Murray had offered to intercede with Art D'Lugoff, and if that worked, we would use the Village Gate as a theater.
Bayard nodded and told me he'd have to see the script first and, if it was acceptable, the SCLC would approve and even lend us its mailing list.
The telephone rang before I could express my excited thanks. After speaking briefly into the receiver, he stood and offered his hand to me.
“Miss Angelou, an important call from Atlanta. Please excuse me. Get the script in to me as soon as possible. Thank you and good luck.”
He was sitting back down even as we shook hands, his attention directed to the telephone.
I was out on the street. Burning to talk to Godfrey. We had permission, maybe we had a theater, we had the desire and the talent. Now all we needed was a cast, musicians and a script. I stopped on the corner of 125th Street. Hell, how did one write a script?
Godfrey brought Hugh to a diner on Broadway where we had scheduled our meeting. Hugh substantiated Godfrey's confidence; he acted efficient. His skin was the color of an unbroken coconut, and he looked just about as hard to crack.
His attitude was in contradiction to his youth, but Godfrey later explained to me that Hugh's parents, West Indians, also owned liquor stores, and Hugh had grown up coping with stock, greedy salesmen, shifty employees and drunken customers.
“Naturally,” he “supported Martin Luther King. Any black man who didn't deserved to be thrown in an open ditch and covered with shit.” Of course he would direct the show, but