Black people in the Diaspora have assumed many faces, since we left the African continent on our journey into the “new” world. Always on probation, we have worn veils and personas that allowed us to fit in.
We have worn the faces of the field chattel, the house slave, the runaway slave (my favorite), the bad man, the Creole crossover princess, the single parent with true grit and Job-like patience, Uncle Tom, Aunt Jemima, the overachieving exception, the pure intellectual, the teacher, the minister, the marginalized and martyred prophet, jazz personified in the cool entertainer, the extravagant athlete, the terrible child and even the sensitive and reclusive poet.
Maya Angelou, 1928-2014, met, knew, cooperated with, collaborated with, opposed (almost always with aplomb and dignity), represented, intimately probed, sometimes dissected, sometimes corrected, sometimes used every one of these black masks. She was able to accomplish this admirable feat of human complexity and visionary clarity by incorporating into her being, quite early, what the Yoruba call “Ashe,” or the ability to make things happen.
From a childhood of poverty and abuse in rural Arkansas to world renown, recognition and even celebrity, she seemed to always to carry an air, an aura, that said, “Here I am, a fountain of positive energy: dip into me.” I hesitate to use the word “healer,” because it sounds a little mystical and a little precious; but Bob Marley’s reggae classic, “Positive Vibration,” comes immediately to mind.
In 1987-88 I was living in Los Angeles, a 43-year-old failed poet and ex-English teacher working in a business that sold letterheads and envelopes by phone to mean-spirited lawyers all over North America.
I was living in a trailer in the backyard of an elderly actress named Frances Williams, who claimed to have been an intimate friend of every well-known African American of the 20th century, from Ethel Waters, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington to W.E.B. Du Bois and Martin Luther King Jr.
One evening Frances asked if I would like to drive to Santa Monica to a book-signing. I didn’t really want to go, but since I was living in her trailer in her backyard virtually for free, and she was a 69-year-old semi-invalid who walked with two canes, my choices were limited. So that evening we headed out to Santa Monica.
On the way, I asked whose book signing it was. She answered, “Maya Angelou.” I said, “Frances, Maya Angelou is a world-renowned figure. The place will be packed. There’ll be long lines. We’ll never be able to get in.”
Frances then proceeded, again, to educate me on the breadth, depth and endless power of her social connections. She said that when Maya had first come to L.A. to pursue an acting career, she had lived with Frances. She said that she was Maya’s first real mentor.
I was totally skeptical. I said, “Frances, where are we going to park?”
She said to pull into the alley behind the building, go onto the dock and knock on the back door. I did what I was told. After some minutes, a young guy came to the back door and opened it. I explained my quest. He looked at me quizzically, then politely said he’d see what he could do and closed the door.
I got back in the car and explained the situation to Frances. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem upset at all. She just said, “Let’s give him five minutes.”
At minute number seven, the door swung open. He motioned for us to follow him. Caught up in disbelief and elation, I got out of the car, went around and opened the door for Frances and basically carried her – remember the two canes – up the side dock stairs and into the back of the room.
Where, lo and behold, Maya Angelou was sitting facing a room of a thousand people, standing in line waiting for her to sign their books. She turned, saw Frances being carried by me, jumped up, came rushing to us and threw her arms around Frances. I felt bad for ever doubting Frances!
After introducing me to Maya, Frances and I sat like royalty at the signing table from which she dispersed her signature as a gift to the people.
I noticed a guy approaching us from the signing line whom I recognized. We had gone to high school together. We caught one another’s eye and nodded. I always thought him a bit pompous when we were kids, but I was in no position to be judging anybody.
As he reached Maya, he held out his book and she asked his name. He said, “Oh, just sign it to Dr. Dawes.” Maya paused, took a small breath and replied, “I’m sorry, honey, but we don’t do no doctors here. Just tell me your name.”
He sheepishly repeated his name twice, spelled it for her, and she wrote it down. He moved on. I felt strangely justified.
At the end of the evening, after Frances and Maya had taken 15 minutes to catch up, we hugged her, said our goodbyes, and dragged ourselves back in the direction from which we had come. Of course, I was doing most of the dragging, but it was worth it.
