Maya Angelou - Singin and Swingin and Gettin Merry Like Christmas

ALSO BY MAYA ANGELOU

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Gather Together in My Name
The Heart of a Woman
All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes
A Song Flung Up to Heaven

ESSAYS

Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now
Even the Stars Look Lonesome
Letter to My Daughter

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?
I Shall Not Be Moved
On the Pulse of Morning
Phenomenal Woman
The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou
A Brave and Startling Truth
Amazing Peace
Mother
Celebrations

CHILDREN'S BOOKS

My Painted House, My Friendly Chicken, and Me
Kofi and His Magic

PICTURE BOOKS

Now Sheba Sings the Song
Life Doesn't Frighten Me

COOKBOOK

Hallelujah! The Welcome Table

for
Martha and Lillian,
Ned and Bey,
for the laughter,
the love and the music

Don't the moon look lonesome shining through the trees?

Ah, don't the moon look lonesome shining through the trees?

Don't 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 people's 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, I'm Louise. What's your name?

I thought of Puddin' in tame. Ask me again, I'll 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 couldn't hurt me, so I'd give her the name I had given to all white people.

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

Marguerite? That's 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 I've 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 singer's voice groaned a longing I seemed to have known my life long. But I couldn't say that to Louise. She watched my face and I forced it still.

Well, I ain't got no special reason here,
No, I ain't got no special reason here,
I'm gonna leave 'cause I don't feel welcome here.

The music fitted me like tailor-made clothes.

She said, That's Arthur Crudup. Isn't he great?; excitement lighted her face.

It's nice. Thank you for letting me hear it.

It wasn't wise to reveal one's 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 son's babysitter.

I'll 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 hadn't 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. I've started an account for you. She turned to another customer. I couldn't refuse because I didn't know how to do so gracefully.

Outside on the evening street, I examined the woman's intention. What did I have that she wanted? Why did she allow me to walk away with her property? She didn't know me. Even my name might have been constructed on the spot. She couldn't 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 didn't have to make a special trip. I trust you.

Why? That ought to get her. You don't know me.

Because I like you.

But you don't know me. How can you like someone you don't 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 weren't 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.