Even the Stars Look Lonesome Read online

  Although millions of Africans were taken from the continent from the sixteenth until the middle of the nineteenth century, many Africans on the continent display no concern over the descendants of their lost ancestors. Many have no knowledge that their culture has been spread around the world by those same hapless and sometimes hopeless descendants. African culture is alive and well. An African proverb spells out the truth: “The ax forgets. The tree remembers.”

  In the crisp days of my youth whenever I was asked what I thought about growing old, I always responded with a nervous but brassy rejoinder that hid my profound belief that I never expected to live past twenty-eight. Tears would fill my eyes and bathe my face when I thought of dying before my son reached puberty. I was thirty-six before I realized I had lived years beyond my deadline and needed to revise my thinking about an early death. I would live to see my son an adult and myself at the half-century mark. With that realization life waxed sweeter. Old acquaintances became friendships, and new clever acquaintances showed themselves more interesting. Old loves burdened with memories of disappointments and betrayals packed up and left town, leaving no forwarding address, and new loves came calling.

  I decided I would consent to living to an old and venerable age. White strands of hair would combine to make a startling snow-white narrow streak emerging near my temple. I would speak more slowly, choosing my words with the deliberation of an elder stateswoman, a Madame de Staël or a Mary McLeod Bethune. I would wear lovely floral scents—lavender and lilac—reminiscent of lace handkerchiefs and old-fashioned sachets. My clothes would gradually become more distinguished-looking: gray suits, with good brooches on the lapels, and elegant dresses. And while I would refuse on pain of death to wear old ladies’ comforts, I would give away the three-inch spike heels that had given me the advantage of being taller than nearly everyone else in the world. And I would choose good shoes with medium heels save for the odd gold or silver pumps for black-tie affairs.

  Those were my plans. Oh, yes, I would keep company with other old women who would be friends equally dolled-up, and I would always have an elegant dapper man holding my arm.

  Those were my plans, but Robert Burns was right: “The best laid schemes …” Mine certainly went awfully a-gley.

  At sixty my body, which had never displayed a mind of its own, turned obstreperous, opinionated and deliberately treacherous. The skin on my thighs became lumpy, my waist thickened and my breasts—It’s better not to mention them at all except to say that they seemed to be in a race to see which could be first to reach my knees.

  Doubt and pessimism came to me in a terrible Siamese-twin embrace:

  The loss of love and youth

  and fire came raiding,

  riding,

  a horde of plunderers

  on one caparisoned steed,

  sucking up the sun drops,

  trampling the green shoots

  of my carefully planted years.

  The evidence: thickened waist and

  leathery thighs, which triumph

  over my fallen insouciance.

  After fifty-five

  the arena has changed.

  I must enlist new warriors.

  My resistance,

  once natural as raised voices,

  importunes in the dark.

  Is this battle worth the candle?

  Is this war worth the wage?

  May I not greet age

  without a grouse, allowing

  the truly young to own

  the stage?

  But now, as I wend nearer to my seventieth year, my optimism has returned.

  My appetites have also returned with ravenous lustiness. True, I can’t eat choucroute garnie or fried chicken with potato salad and then head for bed. I eat smaller portions earlier and try to take a short walk. A smooth scotch still causes me to smile, and a decent wine is received with gratitude. Men and music still bring great delight, of course, sometimes in moderation. Mostly, what I have learned so far about aging, despite the creakiness of one’s bones and the cragginess of one’s once-silken skin, is this: do it. By all means, do it.

  Godfrey Cambridge was an out-of-work comedian, an occasionally employed taxi driver and my pal-about-town partner. I would have gladly traded the buddy relationship for a romantic affair with him, but, like so many men, Godfrey was interested only in women who were not interested in him. I have not decided whether that attitude stemmed from delight in the chase or a kind of masochism.

  In the fifties I made a reasonable living for myself and my son as a nightclub singer. When I signed a contract to perform at the Gate of Horn in Chicago, friends in New York gave a celebratory party for me. Godfrey offered to pick me up in his taxi and drop me off. He promised to come back around two, spend a few minutes and take me to my home in Brooklyn.

  After enjoying the dance floor for nearly an hour, I moved toward a seat, but not without looking around for my audience. A part of the pleasure of dancing derived from knowing that even some professionals liked to see me dance. I liked their liking me and I never resisted the urge to catch the admiration on their faces, in their eyes.

  That night I was dumbfounded. To my astonishment no one was looking at me. Every eye was focused on a whale of a man who sat in Buddha-like repose against a far wall. A few people gingerly approached the huge figure while those who only dared to watch him timorously sat or stood away in rapt attention.

  I was not a true New Yorker, and possibly neither were the others present, but at least they had seniority, and while I had no idea who the man was, I certainly would not have called my ignorance to anyone’s attention.

  I found my way to the bar and engaged the unrapt bartender in conversation. After two drinks I decided not to give up on my unfaithful admirers. I began to search out partners to dance with me. Finding no one, I danced alone, whirling and twirling to my own delight until I tired myself out.

  After another visit to the bar, I crossed the cleared area that was used as a dance floor to approach the man mountain who I had secretly decided was a drug kingpin. His voice was part growl, part whisper: “Hey. What’s your name?”

  I said, “Maya. What’s yours?”

  He said, “Myra? What you doing here? Who you come with?”

  I drew all my height, my youth, my training into an obelisk of dignity. “This party was given for me. May I ask what you are doing here?”

  His voice was a perfect match for his bulk. “Buddy Young brought me and we’re getting ready to go. This your birthday or something?”

  I knew he wouldn’t understand, but I told him anyway. “This is a bon voyage party. I’m leaving tomorrow for Chicago. I am a singer.”

  “I want to call you. Myra, I like the way you dance. Where do you stay in Chicago? I’m going to be wrestling over there.”

  Hmm, at least he had noticed my choreodrama. I told him the name of the hotel.

  He asked, “And your name is Myra? What’s the rest?”

  I told him. He said, “I’m going to call you. Eugene Lipscomb. Don’t forget me. I’m Eugene Lipscomb.”

  He pushed past me.

  Godfrey returned and was running late, so when he came to get me, he had both our coats. “Let’s go. I can still get a couple of hours before daybreak.”

  We said our good-byes.

  As we neared his parked taxi, he asked, “Somebody said you had been talking to some big dude. Who was it? Are you planning to see him later?”

  I said, “Hardly. He couldn’t figure out how to pronounce my name. Kept calling me Myra.” I began to mimic the big man. “Myra, don’t forget I’m Eugene—Eugene Lipscomb.”

  Godfrey stopped, gasped and grabbed my shoulders, all at once.

  “Did you say Eugene Lipscomb?”

  I nodded my head. He was shaking me.

  “Girl, don’t you know who he is? Don’t you know that’s Big Daddy Lipscomb, the greatest tackle in the world? The star of the Green Bay Packers?”

  He let me
go and, turning around, ran on the icy sidewalk as if he himself were one of the Green Bay Packers and he was trying to duck around Big Daddy.

  I was left alone in the bitter-cold early morning air while my buddy went back into the warm apartment to grovel at the feet of a man who had already left and whom I deemed unworthy of my serious notice.

  I’m wrong—I was not left alone. I had for company embarrassment and remorse over my supercilious behavior. I was also left with a lesson that unfortunately I was to learn again and again.

  If a little learning is dangerous, a little fame can be devastating. The wise woman thinks twice and speaks once or, better yet, does not speak at all. Keeps her silence, her thoughts and her equilibrium appearing to be knowledgeable even when she is not, and, above all, does not allow a little celebrity to convince her that just because she is capable of reading the name of the approaching station, she should not believe that she has arrived.

  On some public occasions, I have acted wisely, sagely with studied poise and control. At other times I have behaved with less subtlety than a Neanderthal rooting for his supper.

  How does fame or celebrity affect our encounters with others?

  There is a moment I dread, for I’m not always sure in advance of how I will behave. For example, a stranger approaches and says to me, “I’ve noticed that everyone at this party [or on this plane or in this restaurant] seems to know you. Well, I don’t. Are you anybody?” At such times, I may smile and answer enigmatically, “Thank you so much.” Or I may say, “Probably not. If you, who are somebody, have to ask.” And at my worst I have said, “Yes. I am a poet. And a very famous one at that, and I am sorry you didn’t know it.” As soon as that piece of arrogance has left my mouth, I shrivel up. I begin to wonder if I am so inflated by the Creator’s gift that God might become irritated and take it from me.

  The African saying is “The trouble for the thief is not how to steal the chief’s bugle, but where to blow it.” I translate that to signify, the trouble for the receiver is not just how to accept a gift (even the gift of fame) but with what grace the recipient shares it.

  There is a cruel and stupid intolerance among the young. I know that is so because at the tender age of thirty I was given to declaim in injured tones: “Old women of fifty look awful in ropes of colored beads, thong sandals and fresh flowers in their hair” and “I’ve had it with old men [of fifty also] whose skin has gone to leather yet still wear open-neck shirts and heavy gold chains down to their crotches.” I was not always careful whether or not the object of my derision could overhear me because I thought that if I spoke loudly maybe the old person would be lucky enough to learn something about proper dressing. Ah hah.

  Ah hah, indeed. Now that I am firmly settled into my fifth decade, and pressing resolutely toward my sixth, I find nothing pleases me so much as gaudy out-sized earrings, off-the-shoulder blouses and red hibiscus blooms pinned in my hair.

  Do I look awful? Possibly to the young. Do I feel awful? Decidedly not. I have reached the lovely age where I can admit that sensuality satisfies me as much as sexuality and sometimes more so. I do not mean to suggest that standing on a hill in San Francisco, being buffeted by a fresh wind as I view the western sun setting into the bay, will give me the same enjoyment as a night of lovemaking with the man of my fantasy. On the other hand, while the quantity of pleasure may weigh more heavily on the side of lovemaking, the quality between the two events is equal.

  Leers and lascivious smirks to the contrary, sensuality does not necessarily lead to sex, nor is it meant to be a substitute for sex. Sensuality is its own reward.

  There are some who are so frightened by the idea of sensual entertainment that they make even their dwelling places bleak and joyless. And what is horrible is that they would have others share that lonely landscape. Personally, I’ll have no part of it. I want all my senses engaged.

  I would have my ears filled with the world’s music, the grunts of hewers of wood, the cackle of old folks sitting in the last sunlight and the whir of busy bees in the early morning. I want to hear the sharp sound of tap dancing and the mournful murmur of a spiritual half remembered and then half sung. I want the clashing cymbals of a marching band and the whisper of a lover entreating a beloved. Let me hear anxious parents warning their obstreperous offspring and a pedantic pedagogue teaching a bored class the mysteries of thermodynamics. All sounds of life and living, death and dying are welcome to my ears.

  My eyes will gladly receive colors; the burnt-orange skin of old black women who ride on buses and the cool lavender of certain people’s eyes. I like the tomato-red dresses of summer and the sienna of a highly waxed mahogany table. I love the dark green of rain forests and the sunshine yellow of a bowl of lemons. Let my eager sight rest on the thick black of a starless night and the crisp white of fresh linen. And I will have blue. The very pale blue of some complexions and the bold blue of flags. The iridescent blue of hummingbird wings and the dusty blue of twilight in North Carolina. I am not daunted by the blood-red of birth and the red blood of death. My eyes absorb the world’s variety and uniqueness.

  Taste and smell are firmly joined in wedded bliss. About the bliss I cannot speak, but I can say much about that marriage. I like it that the fleeting scent of fresh-cut citrus and the flowery aroma of strawberries will make my salivary glands pour into my mouth a warm and pure liquid. I accept the salt of tears evoked by sweet onions and betrayed love. Give me the smell of the sea and the wild scent of mountain pines. I do not spurn the suffocating smell of burned rubber of city streets nor the scent of fresh sweat because their pungency reminds me of the bitterness of chocolate and the sting of vinegar. Some of life’s greatest pleasures are conveyed by the dual senses of taste and smell.

  In this tribute to sensuality I have saved the sense of touch as the last pleasure to be extolled. I wish for the slick feel of silk underclothes and the pinch of sand in my beach shoes. I welcome the sun strong on my back and the tender pelting of snow on my face. Good clothes that fit snugly without squeezing and strong fearless hands that caress without pain. I want: the crunch of hazelnuts between my teeth and ice cream melting on my tongue.

  I will have that night of sexuality with the man who inhabits my fantasy. I’ll take the sensuality and the sexuality. Who made the rule that one must-choose either or?

  I

  am a black woman

  tall as a cypress

  strong

  beyond all definition still

  defying place

  and time

  and circumstance

  assailed

  impervious

  indestructible

  Look

  on me and be

  renewed*

  Black women whose ancestors were brought to the United States beginning in 1619 have lived through conditions of cruelties so horrible, so bizarre, the women had to reinvent themselves. They had to find safety and sanctity inside themselves or they would not have been able to tolerate such torture. They had to learn quickly to be self-forgiving, for often their exterior actions were at odds with their interior beliefs. Still they had to survive as wholly and healthily as possible in an infectious and sick climate.

  Lives lived in such cauldrons are either obliterated or forged into impenetrable alloys. Thus, early on and consciously, black women became realities only to themselves. To others they were mostly seen and described in the abstract, concrete in their labor but surreal in their humanness.

  They knew the burden of feminine sensibilities suffocated by masculine responsibilities.

  They wrestled with the inescapable horror of undergoing pregnancies that could only result in feeding more chattels into the rapacious maw of slavery.

  They knew the grief of enforced separations from mates who were not theirs to claim, for the men themselves did not have legal possession of their own bodies.

  And men, whose sole crime was their hue,

  the impress of their Maker’s hand,

  an
d frail and shrinking children too

  were gathered in that mournful band†

  The larger society, observing the women’s outrageous persistence in holding on, staying alive, thought it had no choice but to translate the perversity and contradictions of the black woman’s life into a fabulous fiction of multiple personalities. They were seen as acquiescent, submissive Aunt Jemimas with grinning faces, plump laps, fat embracing arms and brown jaws pouched in laughter. They were described as leering buxom wenches with round heels, open thighs and insatiable sexual appetites. They were accused of being marauding matriarchs of stern demeanor, battering hands, unforgiving gazes and castrating behavior.

  When we imagine women inhabited by all these apparitions, it becomes obvious that such perceptions were national, racial and historical hallucinations. The contradictions stump even the most fertile imagination, for they could not have existed without the romantic racism that introduced them into the American psyche. Surprisingly, above all, many women did survive as themselves. We meet them, undeniably strong, unapologetically direct.

  This is not to sing the praises of the black woman’s stamina. Rather, it is a salute to her as an outstanding representative of the human race. Kudos to the educators, athletes, dancers, judges, janitors, politicians, artists, actors, writers, singers, poets and social activists, to all who dare to look at life with humor, determination and respect. They do not abide hypocrisy and those who would practice chicanery find the honesty of these women terrifying.