The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [67]
One woman, a fashion model, hinted that my husband and Rosa's diplomat boyfriend made us partial to the African cause. Abbey said that was a stupid attitude, and what happens in Africa affects every black American.
One woman said the only thing Africans had really done for us was to sell our ancestors into slavery.
I reminded the conservatives in our group that Martin Luther King had said that he found great inspiration and brotherly support on his recent trip to Africa.
Rosa spoke abruptly. “Some of us are going to do something. We don't know just what. But all the rest of you who aren't interested, why'n the hell don't you get your asses out and stop taking up our time?”
As usual when she got excited, her West Indian accent appeared and the music in her voice contradicted the words she chose.
Abbey got up and stood by the door. A rustle of clothes, the scraping of shoes, and the door slammed and six women were left in the living room.
Abbey brought brandy and we got down to business. After a short, fierce talk our decisions were made. On Friday, we would attend the General Session of the United Nations. We would carry black pieces of cloth, and when Adlai Stevenson started to make his announcement on Lumumba's death, we six women would use bobby pins and clip mourning veils to the front of our hair and then stand together in the great hall. It wasn't much to do but it was dramatic. Abbey thought some men might join us. She knew Max would like to come along. Amece, Rosa's sister, knew two West Indian revolutionaries who would like to be included. If men joined us, we would make elasticized arm bands, and at the proper moment, the men could slip the black bands up their sleeves and stand with the women. That was the idea. No mass movement but still a dramatic statement.
As the meeting was coming to an end, I remembered a piece of advice Vus had given a few young African freedom fighters:
“Never allow yourself to be cut off from the people. Predators use the separation tactic with great success. If you're going to do something radical go to the masses. Let them know who you are. That is your only hope of protection.”
I quoted Vus to the women and suggested that we let some folks in Harlem know what we intended to do. Every one agreed. We would go to Mr. Micheaux; he could pass the word around Harlem faster than an orchestra of conga drums.
The next afternoon we went back to the bookstore, where posters of blacks covered every inch of wall space not taken up by shelves: Marcus Garvey dressed in military finery, drove forever in an open car on one wall. W. E. B. DuBois gazed haughtily above the heads of book browsers. Malcom X, Martin Luther King and an array of African chiefs stared down in varying degrees of ferocity.
Mr. Micheaux was fast moving, quick talking and small. His skin was the color of a faded manila envelope. We stopped him on one of his spins through the aisles. He listened to our plans impatiently, nodding his head.
“Yeah. The people ought to know. Tell them yourselves. Yeah, you tell them.” His short staccato sentences popped out of his mouth like exploding cherry bombs. “Come back this evening. I'll have them here. Not nigger time. On time. Seven-thirty You tell them.”
He turned, neatly avoiding customers in the crowded aisle.
A little after seven o'clock at the corner of Seventh Avenue, we had to push our way through a crowd of people who thronged the sidewalks. We thought the Muslims, or the Universal Improvement Association, were holding a meeting, or Daddy Grace and his flock were drumming up souls for Christ. Of course, it was a warm spring evening and already the small apartments were suffocating. Anything could have brought the people into the streets.
Mr. Micheaux's amplified voice reached us as we neared the bookstore.
“A lot of you say Africa ain't your business, ain't your business. But