The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [30]
Backstage the cast assembled, nervous over the presence of celebrities and excited with the expected opening night jitters. Bayard Rustin spoke to the performers in his tight, clipped voice, explaining the importance of the project and thanking them for their art and generosity. Godfrey made jokes about the opportunity to work, to be paid, and to do some good, all at the same time. I quoted Martin Luther King, “Truth dashed to earth shall rise again,” and then Hugh Hurd asked us to leave so that he could give his cast a last-minute pep talk.
The show began and the performers, illuminated with the spirit, hit the stage and blazed. Comfortable with the material of their own routines, comedians made the audience howl with pleasure and singers delighted the listeners with familiar romantic songs. The revue, which is what the show had become, moved quickly until a scene from Langston Hughes's The Emperor of Haiti brought the first note of seriousness. Hugh Hurd, playing the title role, reminded us all that although as black people we had a dignity and a love of life, those qualities had to be defended constantly.
Orson Bean, the only white actor in the cast, shuffled up to the microphone and began what at first seemed a rambling remembrance. In minutes, the audience caught his point and laughed in appreciation. Leontyne Watts sang a cappella, “Some times I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” and everyone knew that the words meant that oppression had made orphans of black Americans and forced us to live as misfits in the very land we had helped to build.
The entire cast stood in a straight line and sang “Lift every voice and sing …”
The audience stood in support and respect. Those who knew the lyrics joined in, building and filling the air with the song often called “The Negro National Anthem.”
After the third bow, Godfrey hugged me and whispered, “We've got a hit. A hit, damn, a hit.”
Hugh Hurd said, “He's standing up out there.”
Godfrey said, “Hell, man, everybody who's got feet is standing up.”
Hugh said, “Aw, man. I know that. I mean Sidney. Sidney Poitier is standing up on the table.” A few of us rushed to the sidelines, but were unable to see through the crush of people still crowding toward the stage.
The next afternoon, Levison, Godfrey, Hugh, Jack Murray and I met in Art D'Lugoff 's office. We sat tall on the dilapidated chairs, proud of the success of Cabaret for Freedom.
Art said that not only could we use his night club without charge for five weeks, he would make his mailing list available. Stanley accepted the offer but said unfortunately there was no one in the SCLC office to take advantage of it. The small paid staff was swamped with organizational work, sending out direct-mail appeals, and promoting appearances of visiting Southern ministers. That was unfortunate because the mailing list included people out in Long Island and up in New Rochelle. People who wouldn't ordinarily hear of our revue, but who would support it and maybe even make contributions to SCLC if they could be contacted. Godfrey, Hugh and I looked at each other. Three white men were willing to lay themselves out for our cause and all I was ready to do was sing and dance, or at best, encourage others to sing and dance. The situation was too historic for my taste. My people had used music to soothe slavery's torment or to propitiate God, or to describe the sweetness of love and the distress of lovelessness, but I knew no race could sing and dance its way to freedom.
“I'll take care of it.” I spoke with authority.
Stanley allowed a little surprise into his voice. “Are you volunteering? We can't afford to pay a salary, you know.”
Hugh said, “I'll help any way I can.” He understood that we just couldn't let the white men be the only contributors.
Godfrey smiled. “And, you know,