Angelou - Singin and Swingin and Gettin Merry Like Christmas

2009 Random House Trade Paperback Edition

Copyright 1976 by Maya Angelou

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House Trade Paperbacks, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

R ANDOM H OUSE T RADE P APERBACKS and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1976.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

Chappell & Co., Inc.: For eight lines of lyrics from the song Street Song, by George Gershwin (pp. 202 & 203), and three lines of lyrics from Theres a Boat Thats Leavin Soon for New York, by George Gershwin (p. 166). Copyright 1935 by Gershwin Publishing Corp. Copyright renewed. All rights reserved. International copyright secured.

Harper & Row Publishers, Inc.: For lines from the poem For a Lady I Know from On These I Stand by Countee Cullen (p. 160). Copyright 1925 by Harper & Row Publishers, Inc.: renewed 1953 by Ida M . Cullen.

Northern Music Company: For four lines of lyrics from the song Stone Cold Dead in the Market (He Had It Coming), words and music by Wilmoth Houdini (pg. 101). Copyright 1945, 1946 by Northern Music Company. All rights reserved.

eISBN: 978-1-58836-926-0

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Dont the moon look lonesome shining through the trees?

Ah, dont the moon look lonesome shining through the trees?

Dont your house look lonesome when your baby pack up to leave?

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the spaces between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.

In my rented room (cooking privileges down the hall), I would play a record, then put my arms around the shoulders of the song. As we danced, glued together, I would nuzzle into its neck, kissing the skin, and rubbing its cheek with my own.

The Melrose Record Shop on Fillmore was a center for music, musicians, music lovers and record collectors. Blasts from its loudspeaker poured out into the street with all the insistence of a false mourner at a graveside. Along one wall of its dark interior, stalls were arranged like open telephone booths. Customers stood playing their selections on turn tables and listening through earphones. I had two hours between jobs. Occasionally I went to the library or, if the hours coincided to a free dance class at the YWCA. But most often I directed myself to the melodious Melrose Record Store, where I could wallow, rutting in music.

Louise Cox, a short blonde who was part owner of the store, flitted between customers like a fickle butterfly in a rose garden. She was white, wore perfume and smiled openly with the Negro customers, so I knew she was sophisticated. Other peoples sophistication tended to make me nervous and I stayed shy of Louise. My music tastes seesawed between the blues of John Lee Hooker and the bubbling silver sounds of Charlie Parker. For a year I had been collecting their records.

On one visit to the store, Louise came over to the booth where I was listening to a record.

Hi, Im Louise. Whats your name?

I thought of Puddin in tame. Ask me again, Ill tell you the same. That was a cruel childhood rhyme meant to insult.

The last white woman who had asked me anything other than May I help you? had been my high school teacher. I looked at the little woman, at her cashmere sweater and pearls, at her slick hair and pink lips, and decided she couldnt hurt me, so Id give her the name I had given to all white people.

Marguerite Annie Johnson. I had been named for two grandmothers.

Marguerite? Thats a pretty name.

I was surprised. She pronounced it like my grandmother. Not Margarite, but Marg-you-reet.

A new Charlie Parker came in last week. I saved it for you.

That showed her good business sense.

I know you like John Lee Hooker, but Ive got somebody I want you to hear. She stopped the turntable and removed my record and put on another in its place.

Lord I wonder, do she ever think of me,
Lord I wonder, do she ever think of me,
I wonder, I wonder, will my baby come back to me?

The singers voice groaned a longing I seemed to have known my life long. But I couldnt say that to Louise. She watched my face and I forced it still.

Well, I aint got no special reason here,
No, I aint got no special reason here,
Im gonna leave cause I dont feel welcome here.

The music fitted me like tailor-made clothes.

She said, Thats Arthur Crudup. Isnt he great?; excitement lighted her face.

Its nice. Thank you for letting me hear it.

It wasnt wise to reveal ones real feelings to strangers. And nothing on earth was stranger to me than a friendly white woman.

Shall I wrap it for you? Along with the Bird?

My salary from the little real estate office and the dress shop downtown barely paid rent and my sons babysitter.

Ill pick them both up next week. Thank you for thinking of me. Courtesy cost nothing as long as one had dignity. My grandmother, Annie Henderson, had taught me that.

She turned and walked back to the counter, taking the record with her. I counseled myself not to feel badly. I hadnt rejected an offer of friendship, I had simply fielded a commercial come-on.

I walked to the counter.

Thank you, Louise. See you next week. When I laid the record on the counter, she pushed a wrapped package toward me.

Take these, Marg-you-reet. Ive started an account for you. She turned to another customer. I couldnt refuse because I didnt know how to do so gracefully.

Outside on the evening street, I examined the womans intention. What did I have that she wanted? Why did she allow me to walk away with her property? She didnt know me. Even my name might have been constructed on the spot. She couldnt have been seeking friendship, after all she was white, and as far as I knew white women were never lonely, except in books. White men adored them, Black men desired them and Black women worked for them. There was no ready explanation for her gesture of trust.

At home I squeezed enough from the emergency money I kept in a drawer to repay her. Back at the store, she accepted the money and said, Thanks, Marg-you-reet. But you didnt have to make a special trip. I trust you.

Why? That ought to get her. You dont know me.

Because I like you.

But you dont know me. How can you like someone you dont know?

Because my heart tells me and I trust my heart.

For weeks I pondered over Louise Cox. What could I possibly have that she could possibly want? My mind, it was certain, was a well-oiled mechanism which worked swiftly and seminoiselessly I often competed with radio contestants on quiz programs and usually won hands down in my living room. Oh, my mental machine could have excited anyone. I meant anyone interested in a person who had memorized the Presidents of the United States in chronological order, the capitals of the world, the minerals of the earth and the generic names of various species. There werent too many callers for those qualifications and I had to admit that I was greatly lacking in the popular attractions of physical beauty and womanly wiles.

All my life, my body had been in successful rebellion against my finer nature. I was too tall and raw-skinny My large extroverted teeth protruded in an excitement to be seen, and I, attempting to thwart their success, rarely smiled. Although I lathered Dixie Peach in my hair, the thick black mass crinkled and kinked and resisted the smothering pomade to burst free around my head like a cloud of angry bees. No, in support of truth, I had to admit Louise Cox was not friendly to me because of my beauty.