The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [7]
It was obvious that our home life was not going to return to normal until he aired his grievance.
“Guy, what did you think of Billie Holiday?”
“She was O.K., I guess.”
“That's all you thought?”
“Well, she sure cursed a lot. If she curses that way all the time, it's no wonder people don't like her.”
“So you didn't like her?”
“Anybody who curses all the time is stupid.”
I had heard him use a few unacceptable words when talking in the backyard with his friend Tony. “Guy, don't you use some bad words yourself?”
“But I'm a boy, and boys say certain things. When we go hiking or in the gym. We say things you're not supposed to say in front of girls, but that's different.”
I didn't think that this was a time to explain the unfairness of a double standard. He walked to his room, and standing in the doorway without turning back to face me, he said, “Oh yeah. And when I grow up, I'm not going to let anybody—no matter how famous she is—I'm not going to let anybody curse at my children.”
He slammed the door.
The Billie Holiday incident had hurt him more deeply than I had imagined. I planned a recovery scheme which would return my son to normal. First I apologized to him, then for the next few days I talked softly prepared his favorite foods, took him out to the movies and played cutthroat Scrabble with him until I had to leave for work. He was recuperating well when I received a telephone call from his school.
“Miss Angelou, I am a counselor at Marvelland School and we don't think Guy should ride the school bus next semester.”
“You don't think … What ‘we’ and why not?”
“The principal, a few teachers and I. We've discussed his actions … and we agree—”
“What action? What did he do?”
“Well, he used profanity on the school bus.”
“I'll be right there.”
“Oh, there's no need—”
I hung up the telephone.
When I walked into the principal's office and saw the welcoming committee, I felt twenty feet tall and as black as midnight. Two white women and a tiny balding white man rose from their seats as I entered.
I said good morning and introduced myself.
“Really, Miss Angelou, the situation did not warrant your making a trip to the school.”
The puny-looking man extended his hand. “I'm Mr. Baker, Guy's counselor, and I know he is not a bad boy. Not really.”
I looked at the woman who had not spoken. It would be better to let them all have their say.
One woman said, “I teach English, and one of my students reported the incident to me this morning.”
“I'd like to know what happened.”
The English teacher spoke with deliberation, as if she were testing the taste of the words.
“As I understand it, a conversation had been going on, on a particular topic. When the bus stopped at your corner, Guy boarded it and joined the conversation. He then gave explicit details on that particular subject. When the bus arrived at school, a couple of the girls were crying and they came to me and reported Guy's behavior.”
“And what did Guy say? What was his excuse?”
The second woman broke her silence. “We have not spoken to Guy. We thought there was no reason to embarrass him.”
“You mean to say you have simply assumed that to be accused is to be guilty. And so you are ready to deny him the right of using the school bus, which is paid for with my taxes, without hearing his side? I want to see Guy. And I want to see him now. I don't know why I thought white teachers would be fair to a Negro child. I want to hear what Guy has to say. And now.”
The moment of confrontation brought about an unexpected metamorphosis. The three teachers, who had seemed individually small and weak, shifted and swam together coalescing into one unit, three bodies with one brain. Their faces hardened, their eyes hardened.
“We do not interrupt students during