Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now Read online

  However, during that afternoon and evening I arrived at the conclusion that if a man came along who seemed to me to be honest and sincere, who wanted to make me laugh and succeeded in doing so, a man who had a lilting spirit—if such a man came along who had a respect for other human beings, then if he was Swedish, African, or a Japanese sumo wrestler, I would certainly give him my attention, and I would not struggle too hard if he caught me in a web of charm.

  Brutality Is Definitely Not Acceptable

  Certain phrases excite and alarm me. That is, when I hear them, I respond as if I have smelled gas escaping in a closed room. Without having to think of my next move, if I am not hemmed in, I make my way toward the handiest exit. If I cannot escape, however, I react defensively.

  “Don’t mind me, I’m brutally frank.” That is always a summons to arms.

  I recognize the timid sadist who would like to throw a stone and hide her hand or, better, who would like not only to wound but to be forgiven by the soon-to-be-injured even before the injury.

  Well, I do mind brutality in any of its guises, and I will not be lured into accepting it merely because the brute asks me to do so.

  “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way …” is another bell ringer for me.

  I sense the mealymouthed attacker approaching so if I cannot flee, I explain in no uncertain voice if there is even the slightest chance that I might take a statement the wrong way, be assured that I will do so. I advise the speaker that it would be better to remain silent than to try to collect the speaker’s bruised feelings, which I intend to leave in pieces scattered on the floor.

  I am never proud to participate in violence, yet I know that each of us must care enough for ourselves to be ready and able to come to our own self-defense.

  Our Boys

  The plague of racism is insidious, entering into our minds as smoothly and quietly and invisibly as floating airborne microbes enter into our bodies to find lifelong purchase in our bloodstreams.

  Here is a dark little tale which exposes the general pain of racism. I wrote ten one-hour television programs called Blacks, Blues, Blacks, which highlighted Africanisms still current in American life. The work was produced in San Francisco at KQED.

  The program “African Art’s Impact in Western Art” was fourth in the series. In it I planned to show the impact African sculpture had on the art of Picasso, Modigliani, Paul Klee, and Rouault. I learned that a Berkeley collector owned many pieces of East African Makonde sculpture. I contacted the collector, who allowed me to select thirty pieces of art. When they were arranged on lighted plinths, the shadows fell from the sculptures onto the floor, and we photographed them in dramatic sequence. The collector and his wife were so pleased with the outcome that at my farewell dinner they presented me with a piece of sculpture as a memento. They were white, older, amused and amusing. I knew that if I lived in their area, we would become social friends.

  I returned to New York, but three years later I moved back to Berkeley to live. I telephoned the collector and informed him of my move. He said, “So glad you called. I read of your return in the newspaper. Of course we must get together.” He went on, “You know I am the local president of the National Council of Christians and Jews. But you don’t know what I’ve been doing since we last spoke. I’ve been in Germany trying to ameliorate the conditions for the American soldiers.” His voice was weighted with emotion. He said, “You know, the black soldiers are having a horrific time over there, and our boys are having a hard time, too.”

  I asked, “What did you say?”

  He said, “Well, I’m saying that the black soldiers are having it particularly rough, but our guys are having a bad time, too.”

  I asked, “Would you repeat that?”

  He said, “Well, I’m saying …” Then his mind played back his statement, or he reheard the echo of his blunder hanging in the air.

  He said, “Oh, my God, I’ve made such a stupid mistake, and I’m speaking to Maya Angelou.” He said, “I’m so embarrassed, I’m going to hang up.” I said, “Please don’t. Please don’t. This incident merely shows how insidious racism is. Please, let’s talk about it.” I could hear embarrassment in his voice, and hesitations and chagrin. Finally, after about three or four minutes, he managed to hang up. I telephoned him three times, but he never returned my telephone calls.

  The incident saddened and burdened me. The man, his family and friends were lessened by not getting to know me and my family and friends. And it also meant that I, my family, and my friends were lessened by not getting to know him. Because we never had a chance to talk, to teach other and learn from each other, racism had diminished all the lives it had touched.

  It is time for the preachers, the rabbis, the priests and pundits, and the professors to believe in the awesome wonder of diversity so that they can teach those who follow them. It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength. We all should know that diversity makes for a rich tapestry, and we must understand that all the threads of the tapestry are equal in value no matter their color; equal in importance no matter their texture.

  Our young must be taught that racial peculiarities do exist, but that beneath the skin, beyond the differing features and into the true heart of being, fundamentally, we are more alike, my friend, than we are unalike.

  … Mirror twins are different

  although their features jibe,

  and lovers think quite different

  thoughts

  while lying side by side.

  We love and lose in China,

  we weep on England’s moors,

  and laugh and moan in Guinea,

  and thrive on Spanish shores.

  We week success in Finland,

  are born and die in Maine.

  In minor ways we differ,

  in major we’re the same.

  I note the obvious differences

  between each sort and type,

  but we are more alike, my friends,

  than we are unalike.

  We are more alike, my friends,

  than we are unalike.

  We are more alike, my friends,

  than we are unalike.

  Jealousy

  A jealous lover can be a little amusing. In fact, jealousy made evident in a room filled with people can be an outright intoxicant to everyone, including the lovers. It must be remembered, however, that jealousy in romance is like salt in food. A little can enhance the savor, but too much can spoil the pleasure and, under certain circumstances, can be life-threatening.

  Planned Pregnancy

  The woman who has the fortune to plan a pregnancy also has the opportunity to experience rare pleasures. She can consciously participate in the evolution of her body from fecundity to its ultimate production stage, the delivery of a child. During the entire period, if she remains attentive, she will marvel at the emergence of new and delightful sensualities.

  She must carefully prepare her mind in order to enjoy the parturition. She will spend time appreciating her body before conception. Knowing that her features will undergo dramatic changes, she and her mate will spend considerable time examining and enjoying her breasts and calves and arms and belly.

  She will have photographs made for the months ahead, which will seem to stretch into years. When her belly extends so far that her feet disappear from her view, then the portraits of her lissome days will have the value of rare gems.

  If she and her mate do not consider pregnancy a common occurrence just because it happens all the time, if they are persistently imaginative, each stage can furnish them exquisite gratification.

  A Day Away

  We often think that our affairs, great or small, must be tended continuously and in detail, or our world will disintegrate, and we will lose our places in the universe. That is not true, or if it is true, then our situations were so temporary that they would have collapsed anyway.

  Once a year or so I give
myself a day away. On the eve of my day of absence, I begin to unwrap the bonds which hold me in harness. I inform housemates, my family and close friends that I will not be reachable for twenty-four hours; then I disengage the telephone. I turn the radio dial to an all-music station, preferably one which plays the soothing golden oldies. I sit for at least an hour in a very hot tub; then I lay out my clothes in preparation for my morning escape, and knowing that nothing will disturb me, I sleep the sleep of the just.

  On the morning I wake naturally, for I will have set no clock, nor informed my body timepiece when it should alarm. I dress in comfortable shoes and casual clothes and leave my house going no place. If I am living in a city, I wander streets, window-shop, or gaze at buildings. I enter and leave public parks, libraries, the lobbies of skyscrapers, and movie houses. I stay in no place for very long.

  On the getaway day I try for amnesia. I do not want to know my name, where I live, or how many dire responsibilities rest on my shoulders. I detest encountering even the closest friend, for then I am reminded of who I am, and the circumstances of my life, which I want to forget for a while.

  Every person needs to take one day away. A day in which one consciously separates the past from the future. Jobs, lovers, family, employers, and friends can exist one day without any one of us, and if our egos permit us to confess, they could exist eternally in our absence.

  Each person deserves a day away in which no problems are confronted, no solutions searched for. Each of us needs to withdraw from the cares which will not withdraw from us. We need hours of aimless wandering or spates of time sitting on park benches, observing the mysterious world of ants and the canopy of treetops.

  If we step away for a time, we are not, as many may think and some will accuse, being irresponsible, but rather we are preparing ourselves to more ably perform our duties and discharge our obligations.

  When I return home, I am always surprised to find some questions I sought to evade had been answered and some entanglements I had hoped to flee had become unraveled in my absence.

  A day away acts as a spring tonic. It can dispel rancor, transform indecision, and renew the spirit.

  MAYA ANGELOU

  I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS

  GATHER TOGETHER IN MY NAME

  SINGIN’ AND SWINGIN’ AND GETTIN’ MERRY LIKE CHRISTMAS

  THE HEART OF A WOMAN

  MAYA ANGELOU: POEMS

  WOULDN’T TAKE NOTHING FOR MY JOURNEY NOW

  I SHALL NOT BE MOVED

  EVEN THE STARS LOOK LONESOME

  AVAILABLE FROM BANTAM BOOKS

  This book

  is dedicated to

  Oprah Winfrey

  with immeasurable love.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to Susan Taylor, editor in chief of Essence magazine, and Marcia Gillespie, editor in chief of Ms. magazine, who persuaded me that some lessons in living, which I had learned over many years, would be of use if featured in a magazine article.

  My tender love to Rosa Johnson, “The Black Rose.” My tender love to Araba Budu-Arthur Bernasco.

  BANTAM BOOKS BY MAYA ANGELOU

  ASK YOUR BOOKSELLER FOR THOSE THAT

  YOU HAVE MISSED

  I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

  Gather Together in My Name

  Singin’ and Swingin’ and Gettin’ Merry Like Christmas

  The Heart of a Woman

  Maya Angelou: Poems

  Wouldn’t Take Nothing for My Journey Now

  I Shall Not Be Moved

  Even the Stars Look Lonesome

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Maya Angelou, author of the bestselling A Song Flung Up to Heaven, Even the Stars Look Lonesome, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Gather Together in My Name, Singin’ and Swingin’ and Gettin’ Merry Like Christmas, Wouldn’t Take Nothing for My Journey Now and the Oprah Book Club selection The Heart of a Woman, has also written five collections of poetry: Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water ’fore I Diiie; Oh Pray My Wings Are Gonna Fit Me Well; And Still I Rise; Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing? and I Shall Not Be Moved, as well as On the Pulse of Morning, which was read by her at the inauguration of President William Jefferson Clinton on January 20, 1993. In theater, she produced, directed and starred in Cabaret for Freedom in collaboration with Godfrey Cambridge at New York’s Village Gate, starred in Genet’s The Blacks at the St. Mark’s Playhouse and adapted Sophocles’ Ajax, which premiered at the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles in 1974. In film and television, she wrote the original screenplay and musical score for the film Georgia, Georgia and wrote and produced a ten-part TV series on African traditions in American life. In the sixties, at the request of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., she became Northern Coordinator for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, and in 1975 she received the Ladies’ Home Journal Woman of the Year Award in communications. She has received numerous honorary degrees, was appointed by President Jimmy Carter to the National Commission on the Observance of International Women’s Year and by President Gerald R. Ford to the American Revolution Bicentennial Advisory Council. She is on the board of trustees of the American Film Institute. One of the few female members of the Directors Guild, Angelou is the author of the television screenplays I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and The Sisters. Most recently, she wrote the lyrics for the musical King: Drum Major for Love and was both host and writer for the series of documentaries Maya Angelou’s America: A Journey of the Heart, along with Guy Johnson. Angelou is currently Reynolds Professor at Wake Forest University, Winston-Salem, North Carolina.