Things I Should Have Told My Daughter Page 2

  Working here, I am surrounded by the Movement. In the materials we are collecting and in the voices of the people who work here. Most of them are longtime activists and organizers. I listen to the stories they tell and I am in awe of their determination and their courage. They all know Daddy and respect him. I actually think he is part of the reason why I got this job. We’re charged with gathering archival materials documenting freedom struggles all over the country. They would love to have Daddy’s papers here. I think it’s great that Mrs. King started this huge project so soon after Dr. King died. I wonder if they knew what a radical Vincent Harding was when they asked him to run it!

  She has been very nice to me the couple of times I’ve met her. She looks exactly like her pictures. I wanted to tell her I think the name of the place is unwieldy: The Martin Luther King, Jr., Library and Documentation Project. But then somebody told me they had thought about making it even longer: The Martin Luther King, Jr., Library and Documentation Project and Center for Non-Violent Social Change, so I figured I would let well enough alone.

  I wonder: where is Rap?

  MARCH 27, 1970

  My cousin Deedee is going to Algeria. Why? Because somebody in a dream came to her and said “Go to Algeria!” So she got up, looked in the dictionary to make sure where it was and then started getting ready to go. She is selling her furniture and giving her things away and getting ready to go. Sonny is gone and Barbara is going to Japan in a VW bus, so I guess it makes sense that Deedee is splitting to Algiers. Kris, on the other foot, is growing the kid and becoming fed up with the women’s role in the revolution—cleaning up; doing dishes; and feeding the man. What a revolution. Stokely said the place of the woman in the revolution should be prone. Then the Panther guy said, “On the other hand, any woman walking behind her man should be getting ready to put her foot up his ass.”

  Are those my only choices?

  JUNE 17, 1970

  We saw a movie last night called Women in Love. It was weird as hell. Some parts were really good, but some parts were dragged out and heavy-handed. There was one part where this man gave an explanation of how to eat a fig. A fig! The way he said it was so vile and nasty, but really funny. Lots of really thinly veiled double meanings and stuff. Really well done.

  Kenneth Gibson was elected the first black mayor of Newark yesterday. He was supported by LeRoi Jones and the folks at Spirit House. The Newark Negroes are pretty glad, but the Mafia is pissed off. I hope that is not going to be a big hassle with all that mess! That is my political note for the day.

  But, back to the movie. It had all these really corny scenes of romantic love. I object to that in movies because I think that it messes people up in real relationships. They always want to make a pretty picture, never reality. It always has to be like the movies. But other parts of the movie included really raunchy love scenes and they were just as awkward and messy as real life can be, but the realness was overshadowed in certain sections by the romantic thing. I mean, running nude through the grass and all that! A real drag. Not believable.

  Kris is having her baby in about another four days. I hope she is all right and the kid is all right and that she will come for a visit in August!

  DECEMBER 16, 1970

  Well, today a man stopped me on the street to say something smart but before he could get it out, I said, “How are you doin’ today?” And he kind of regrouped and said, “I trust in the good lord. They done killed King, so I’m on my own, I guess.” Wow. That is too depressing to deal with. I wonder if he felt anything about ol’ King for real. It kind of set him back when I greeted him before he could hit on me. Although he did remember to ask me for my phone number before I walked away, he did it in a haphazard, half-assed kind of way. Just to keep his hand in . . .

  JANUARY 14, 1971

  Last night at Vincent Harding’s house was strange. Mrs. DuBois and the adoring folks at her feet. I don’t quite know why. She is very intelligent, but the attitude of waiting for wisdom from the fountainhead is foreign to me in terms of Mrs. DuBois. But later, after she had exhausted herself, Howard Moore began to talk about Sister Angela Davis. He is a beautiful brother and a great lawyer who is defending Angela in California in connection with George Jackson’s brother killing a judge, trying to free his brother. She is innocent and Howard said he thinks she can win. I hope he’s right. I almost started crying when he was talking about the horrible conditions in the jail where she is being held. Later, he leaned over to Mrs. DuBois when there weren’t many people around and said: “Mrs. DuBois, do you think you could give me a word of encouragement for Angela?” Wow. It was just like all the shit that is going down rushed into that room and was right there. The whole thing was real—Angela in prison, roaches in the soup, black, communist, woman, mice tails in the food, jail conditions, political prisoners and the whole shit. Everything was present in the room with us. At the end of the party, Stanley Wise told Mrs. DuBois, with typical Wise enthusiasm, “My wife and I are coming to Africa and we will stop by Egypt and see you.” Like it was on Beckwith Street! Crazy black folk! I have to call Jane about organizing a rally for Angela at Spelman. We can do it, I’m sure. We have to do something about raising funds and keeping public interest alive. We can’t just fade away and let them kill her!

  JANUARY 15, 1971

  Well, it has come to Spiro Agnew on television telling us that if the State determines that a mother is unfit, the State will place the child of the welfare mother in an orphanage. Also, if a welfare mother has too many children, the State will sterilize her. Also, if someone on Medicare takes “too long to die,” the State will be empowered to “put them out of their misery.” Isn’t that horrible? He is the polluted wave of the future. I have only one comment on him: I WANT OUT!!

  FEBRUARY 9, 1971

  New York City

  On the road with Karen for the Southern Education Program recruitment tour. We’re recruiting black grad students to teach at black southern colleges for two years after they finish grad school. We present it kind of like a Peace Corps thing, which is weird, but I think a lot of people see the South as a foreign country anyway, so. . . . Our slogan is “Teach A Brother!” Karen gives the spiel, answers questions, I hand out information on SEP, then the sponsor takes us out to dinner. It’s fun. Glad I don’t have to do the speech!

  FEBRUARY 11, 1971

  Princeton, N.J.

  Karen made me give the speech! She didn’t even tell me until right before the program started. I tried to freak out, but she wasn’t having it, so I had to get up and do it. Once I got started, it was pretty cool. I believe in what we’re doing, so I talked about how important it was and how much they would get out of it. People seemed pretty responsive and came up after to thank us for coming and take our brochures.

  When we got ready to walk across campus for dinner, the whole group of us were together, but I started talking to this guy from Trenton. He said his name was Zaron Burnett and he was a conscientious objector leaving the next day for two years of alternative service in a state mental hospital! There was snow and ice on the ground and while we were walking, he offered me his arm. It was nice. Old-fashioned and kind of courtly. We ended up sitting together and kept talking all through dinner. I really liked him. It almost felt like we were picking up a conversation in progress. He walked with us back to our car and it was really cold and very clear. Dark sky and lots of stars. I wished him luck, but he didn’t seem worried about going. Like it was another adventure and he was ready for it. It seemed like a movie scene. Little snowflakes swirling around us. A brief moment before returning to the struggle. I felt like I should kiss him, but Karen was standing right there, so I didn’t.

  Home tomorrow!

  JULY 22, 1971

  This morning on Hunter Street, I passed a black woman at the bus stop. She was simply dressed in a green-and-white checked shirtwaist dress. It was a little too big and little bit too long, but not really sloppy. It had a little fabric-covered belt to match, too. But on top of her head was a huge, platinum blond wig. It was curled and flipped and teased and in general fixed to look as hideous as possible. It wasn’t even pulled down very far. It was just sitting there like it was a bird who had decided to light there and visit with her for a while. She had a very serious expression and she was looking down the street intently for the bus. The wig was looking, too, but I don’t think it was looking for the bus. It looked like it had had a hard night and would welcome an Alka Seltzer.

  AUGUST 4, 1971

  Seems like Sharon and I always talk about old times. Like when we see each other we go right back to Freshman Week at Howard when they marched us to the chapel in black dresses to take an oath by candlelight that made us officially Howard women. And how you had to come in for curfew at eight o’clock when it was still light outside and you could look right out the dorm window and watch the switching sophomores swoop on the brother you hoped would wink at you. I remember all the politics in D.C., traditional and non-traditional. I remember the counter-inaugural me and Kris went to that ended up a muddy mess no matter how much hay they threw down to soak up the puddles of rain. I remember two white boys offering us “a quarter for a dance and a cigarette for a screw.” I remember two shadowy brothers who offered grass guaranteed to “open up your head.” I remember old Phil Ochs singing anti-war songs while we sat on some bales of hay, smelling the reefer in the air so thick you could float up above the crowd on your own if you breathed long enough and deep enough. And what did President Johnson think about it? No cops came. They had bribed the God of Rain so why did they need cops? Ain’t nobody gonna riot when the mud is up to your knees!

  Old times. New times will have to come later. Peace!

  AUGUST 13, 1971

  Friday the thirteenth. Does
that mean bad luck? Does a black cat mean bad luck? Seems to me we have to sluff off these white-oriented symbols of bad luck along with all the stuff about how scary black is. I refuse to be intimidated.

  Saw McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Beautiful pictures and some really spirited cussing. However, in totality, the movie somehow just missed being really hip. I dug it, though. He thought it was superficial. Maybe it was, but we all like to indulge in a superficial thing or two every now and then. After the movie, we passed by the Snooty Hooty Boutique and even though it was closed, you could see inside through the glass and in among the long dresses and suede coats were scattered six or seven real boys. They looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. They were all fragile and floaty and delicately posed like little pieces of white taffy candy. They were smiling like they had a secret we wanted to know and wearing their hair in long curls around their shoulders. One waved at someone who went by, but none of them waved at us. They looked like their eyes would glow in the dark. Like cats or mice or snakes.

  SEPTEMBER 7, 1971

  I have been madly in love with this man for years. He came to Detroit once to talk to my father about some anti-war activities when I was in high school and then I met him again when I got here. He was in SNCC with Karen and sometimes he drops by our office to say hello. Today he comes in wearing a pale blue flowered shirt, blue belt, baggy gray pants and tiny little black pointed toe shoes. His eyes are always the same; curious and peaceful. He has planted a garden and he is talking about it to Karen. “I wish I had listened to the old folks,” he says. “They say you must plant okra and curse it when you put it in the ground or it won’t come up. They say if you plant at a full moon, you will get tall plants, but they will be bare. If you plant on the waning moon, you will get short plants, but they will be full and good bearing.” He says the ones he planted rebelled against the rows and the renegade plants are now growing successfully all over the yard. He says a friend of his who works for the railroad brought him some cotton seeds and he will plant them by his front steps so he can say: “When I was in Georgia, I had cotton growing right outside my door.” I don’t think he knows how nice it is to see him. I remember seeing him one day at the library. He called me “Jewel Child.” That did not, of course, help the case of unrequited love.

  SEPTEMBER 14, 1971

  Because Library School will take up two whole years of my life, I have decided to keep a journal of events/feelings/reactions to it as long as I can stick it out. Judging from today, that might not be too long, but I will start with a reaction to yesterday so it will not be forgotten.

  First, they gave us a tour of the library, starting with the Margaret Mitchell Room. Somehow, that didn’t quite put a right taste in my mouth, since her most famous character is the well-known slave-owning Scarlett O’Hara, but I didn’t let it faze me and kept right on. We proceeded to all the dusty recesses of the library and ended up in the children’s section, standing in our uncertain little group, facing a fireplace lined with a series of tiles from 1903, which tell one of the Uncle Remus stories. And there at the top, wearing his beautiful, angelic smile, was the old uncle himself, telling his stories to a little white child with a blond pageboy. That, of course, did nothing to brighten my mood or my general outlook on the whole adventure. But, onward and back upstairs to meet Mr. Rochelle.

  First of all, as soon as he opened his mouth, my prejudices immediately took over: a white man with a southern accent. Two strikes. He talked on and on in a strikingly boring monotone. He said that there had been some question about whether he could function as head of the library system in a city that was now over 50 percent black; whether he could “think black enough.” Of course, he dismissed the question as not really relevant in most instances and said he was sure he could deal with it effectively. Very bored. Very patronizing. I was totally turned off. Then a young brother talked to us about bookmobiles. He was all right, but not an exciting speaker and after Mr. Rochelle, we needed pepping up. Finally, he said something about how he had been told by a warden of a prison in Atlanta not to bring “those controversial kinds of books” into the prison for the prisoners to read. That was interesting, especially in view of the whole Attica thing and George Jackson and the general level of awareness of the brothers in the prisons and the repression that is coming down on them. But the young brother did not dwell on it. Then, we were introduced to Miss Smith, a young sister from Cleveland who spoke enthusiastically about how great a chance this was for creative folks and how much she dug her work. Finally, some enthusiasm! I was much heartened.

  We had lunch at Emile’s, around the corner from the library. Nothing of note, except nice little hot loaves of bread on little wooden bread boards at your table. They have good fish, too. Then we’re off on a tour of the inner-city branch libraries. I was surprised to see all the storefront libraries. They really reminded me of Kris and Jim and the Black Conscience Library they had in Detroit where they used to have free showings of The Battle of Algiers. Some of the libraries were interesting looking, but most of them did not look too alive. But it was an interesting overall tour and I was enthusiastic about it by the time it was over. Visions of working in one of those places became more real and I felt somewhat relieved, although I was still dreading courses with titles like “Libraries and Librarianship.” The night class in political science is still too new to judge. It should be interesting, I hope. But on to today . . .

  At the end of the day, they told us that our entire group, including myself, of course, will be taking a remedial language arts seminar! That idea is too awful to even put on paper. Can you imagine being told that as a graduate student, you will be expected to make outlines, do topic sentences, diagram and give speeches and do all the insanely time wasting and elementary things you should have been doing all along? I was incensed. I was indignant. I will drop out of the entire program rather than take that course. I will not do it. I think it is totally absurd and insulting. Miss Bynam said that the reason was that so many people come into Atlanta University graduate programs and can’t write and read and effectively communicate. That may be true, but I, fortunately, am not one of that number. So why, why, why? I really cannot deal with it further at this time. I hope to be able to report something more positive tomorrow.

  The real problem is that I don’t really want to be a librarian. I love books. I love reading and this program is a multi-year fellowship that will allow me to quit my other job and have more writing time, but can I survive a whole class on the Dewey Decimal System??

  SEPTEMBER 23, 1971

  An old man with a long cigar and a straw hat cocked to the side walked me from Cynthia’s house back to work. He talked the whole time and took my elbow crossing the street and only toward the end of our stroll did he begin to get a little off the point, but I was saved by having reached my destination. Working for twenty-five years as an inspector at Sears. Very proud of that. Inspects steering wheels. Very proud of that, too. “Well,” he says, “you certainly are a beautiful kid. Look like you never been loved.” It seems that is my great charm, according to other folks’ assessments also. My pure, sweet, untouched innocent look. Ha!