The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [39]
“We are sorry to say that Bayard is going to be leaving the SCLC.”
I looked at Bayard. His long, handsome face was lined, and his eyes appeared troubled.
Oh, he was sick. He had to be sick to leave an organization he loved so dearly and had worked for so diligently. I was so saddened by my speculation that I did not connect Bayard's leaving and my invitation to the office.
“I'm going for a short rest.” Distance was already in Bayard's voice, confirming my assessment. “And I'll be joining A. Phillip Randolph and the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters.” His face said he was already there.
I said, “I'm sorry to hear that, Bayard. Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes.” Bayard was back with us, connected again to the office conversation. “We're looking around for someone to take my place. I suggested that you were capable.”
Only shock, which held me viselike, prevented me from jumping and running out of the office and down the street. Take Bayard Rustin's place. He had worked for the Quakers, led marches in Washington, D.C., during the forties, had been to India and worked with the Untouchables. He was educated, famous, and he was a man.
I didn't say anything because I couldn't speak.
Stanley said, “When Bayard came up with your name, we were quite surprised. But we've thought about it and come to an agreement. You're the person we would all like to run the office.”
Jack nodded a slight happy smile to me.
Bayard said, “The position that's being offered to you, Maya, is coordinator for the SCLC. Of course, that's a little like an umbrella. Many chores fall under its spread.”
I blurted out stupidly, “I can't type.”
The men laughed, and I could have kicked myself for giving them the chance to patronize me.
Jack said, “You'll have a secretary to do your typing.” He laughed again. “And answer your telephone.”
Stanley said, “Now, let's talk salary. You know the SCLC is in need of money and always will be, so we are able to pay only a living wage.”
I was torn. I could think of nothing more gratifying than to work for Martin Luther King, and the Lord knew I needed a living wage. But maybe bodaciousness was leading me to a dangerous height where I'd find breathing difficult. And another nagging uneasiness intruded upon my excitement: Suppose I was being used to force Bayard out of his position.
I gathered myself and stood. “Gentlemen, thank you. I am honored by your invitation. I'd like to think about it. I'll telephone you tomorrow.” And I was out the door, down the stairs and back to the safety of Harlem streets.
John Killens agreed to meet me at a downtown hotel where he had taken a room to do a rewrite. We sat in the hotel dining room.
“If you feel that way, call Bayard. Ask him directly. He's a man. Personally, I don't believe he'd have suggested you if he didn't want you to take the job.”
“All right, but what is a coordinator? Can I do it? I'd rather not try than try and fail.”
“That's stupid talk, Maya. Every try will not succeed. But if you're going to live, live at all, your business is trying. And if you fail once, so what? Old folks say, Every shuteye ain't sleep and every goodbye ain't gone. You fail, you get up and try again.”
He could talk, he was already a success. I wasn't convinced.
“Anyway, coordinator is a nice way of saying fund-raiser You'll be putting on affairs and sending out mailing lists and speaking and arranging speaking engagements to raise money. There's no mystery to that. And if you're not going to sing again ‘ever in life,’ then this sounds like your best bet.”
Bayard met me between appointments. “If you take the position or if you refuse it, I'm leaving. Understand now, I will always support Martin. Even with my life. But it's time for a move.”
He stood beside my barstool at Frank's Restaurant on 125th Street. “I've worked with Randolph for many years and he wants to build a new organization for union workers. I'm not leaving the war, just joining another battle. Take it. You'll do a good job.” He patted