The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [66]
Black people yelled and swayed. Policemen patted their unbuttoned holsters.
Rosa and I nodded at each other. The Muslim tirade was just what we needed to hear. Malcolm thrilled us with his love and understanding of black folks and his loathing of whites and their cruelty.
Unable to get close to the platform, we pushed ourselves into Mr. Micheaux's bookshop and watched and listened in the doorway.
“Talk, Malcolm.”
Malcolm roared back, his face a golden-yellow in the sun, his hair rusty-red.
“If you want to live at any cost, say nothing but ‘yes, sir’ and do nothing except bow and scrape and bend your knees to the devil. But if you want your freedom, you'd better study the teachings of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad, and start respecting your women. Straighten out your home affairs and stop cheating on your wives. You know who you're really cheating?”
Female voices shot up like arrows over the crowd. “Tell these fools, brother Malcolm.” “Tell them to stop acting like little boys.” “Explain it. Explain it on down.” “Break it down.”
Malcolm took a breath and leaned toward the microphone. “You are cheating your fathers and mothers and grandfathers and grandmothers and-you-are-cheating-Allah.”
A man on the platform lifted his hands, showing copper palms, and chanted in Arabic.
After a burst of applause, Malcolm paused and looked solemnly at the crowd. People stopped moving; the air became still. When he spoke again his tone was soft and sweet.
“Some of you think there are good whites, don't you? Some good white folks you've worked for, or worked with or went to school with or even married. Don't you?”
The listeners exchanged a grumble of denial.
Malcolm continued speaking low, nearly whispering. “There are whites who give money to the SCLC, the NAACP and the Urban League. Some even go so far as to march with you in the streets. But let me tell you who they are. Any white American who says he's your friend is either weak”—he waited for the word to have its effect and when he spoke again his voice growled—“or he's an infiltrator. Either he'll be too scared to help you when you need help or he's getting close to you so he can find out your plans and deliver you back in chains to his brothers.”
The street corner exploded with sound as anger and recognition collided. When Malcolm finished speaking the crowd yelled their approval of the fire-hot leader. Rosa and I waited in the bookstore until most of the people left the corner.
We walked without speaking to Frank's Restaurant. Again there was no need to talk. Malcolm's words were harsh, but too close to the bitter truth to argue. Our people were alone. As always, alone. We could not expect protection from whites even if they happened to be our relatives. Slave-owning fathers had sold black sons and daughters. White sisters had put their black sisters in slave coffins for a price.
Rosa and I drank at the bar, not looking at each other.
“What can we do?”
“What do you think?” Rosa turned to me sadly as if I had failed her. She had been counting on me to be intelligent. She continued, frowning, “What the shit do you think? We've got to move. We've got to let the Congolese and all the other Africans know that we are with them. Whether we come from New York City or the South or from the West Indies, that black people are a people and we are equally oppressed.”
I ordered another drink.
The only possible action that occurred to me was to call the members of CAWAH and throw the idea out for open discussion. Among us we would find something to do. Something large enough to awaken the black American community in New York.
Rosa didn't think much of my idea but she agreed to go along.
About ten women met at my house. Immediately the tone was fractious and suspicious. How did Rosa know Lumumba was dead? There had been no announcement in the newspapers.
Rosa said she had gotten her news from reliable sources.
Some members said that they thought our organization had