A Song Flung Up to Heaven

A Song Flung Up to Heaven by Maya Angelou

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Authors: Maya Angelou
Tags: Fiction
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volume and drama for five days, and although the violence waned, the frustration was as pervasive as ever. Politicians and community representatives met and held press conferences. Viewers were told that a plan for Watts was being hammered out.
    The ash had not yet settled on every car and windowsill before the streets were filled with tourists who came to look at Watts. Journalists from France, England and the Soviet Union were shown on television interviewing people in Watts. They asked any question that came to mind: “Why did Watts burn?” “Why did you burn your own neighborhood?” “Isn’t America supposed to be the melting pot?” “Were you trying to get the heat up to melting temperature?”
    The people answered with anything that came to their minds.
    “It burned down before I noticed.”
    “I didn’t have a job, so I burned down Watts.”
    “I didn’t have anything else to do, so I burned a store.”
    The journalists were being treated with the old-as-slavery response: “If a white man asks where you’re going, you tell him where you’ve been.”
    A white man asks, “Where are you going, boy?” Your response should be, with much head scratching and some shuffling, “You know, boss, I was down that street over there by that big old tree, you know, and I saw something ’twas hard to look upon...”
    “I didn’t ask where you were, I asked where are you going.”
    “Yes sir, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. If you had seen what I’ve seen...I don’t...if they’re...couldn’t have been a half a mile away. I had to get out of there, or I don’t know what would have happened.”
    The white man would usually respond, “Oh, you’re a fool. I’m not going to waste any more time on you.” The white man walks away, and the black man is pleased that no secrets were revealed or any lies told.
    But talking drums of the black community carried the message loud and clear. The rebellion reached some important ears, and things were going to change. Community spokespersons said what was needed most was a medical clinic so that sick people didn’t have to travel two or three hours just to see a doctor.
    The unemployed wanted jobs, the underemployed wanted better jobs.
    Who would answer all the questions, fulfill all the requests? Would anyone? Could anyone? History had taught the citizens of Watts to hope for the best and expect nothing, but be prepared for the worst.
    A shaft of sunlight penetrated the gloom of cynicism when Budd Schulberg, an award-winning writer, went to Watts and founded the Watts Writers Workshop. People who didn’t know his name would bless him forevermore.
    “He’s a Hollywood writer, you say?”
    “And he’s coming to Watts?”
    “Here’s one white man who’s putting his body where his mouth is. I like that. I sure do.”
    Some women, mostly white, largely the wives of film moguls, banded together to form an organization, Neighbors of Watts. They went to the area to ask the women how they could be of help.
    Mrs. Violetta Robinson, often called the Mother of Watts, told them what the women of Watts needed—an accredited, well-funded child-care center so that they could leave their children and go to work with clear minds. Something of slavery lurked in the shadows of that request. Slave mothers, up before sunrise and sleeping after dark, went to the canebrakes and cotton fields with minds less clouded with concern because they knew a woman, Aunt Susie, Aunty Mae, Aunt Carrie, would be looking after all the children. They took satisfaction in the fact that “Aunt Susie loves children.” The children “just love Aunty Mae.” “Aunt Carrie won’t stand for no foolishness from the children, but she would feed them herself. She won’t let them eat from a trough like hogs as some did on other plantations.” Sometimes the children’s plates were corn husks or cabbage leaves; still, each child ate with clean fingers and from a clean surface.
    One hundred and fifty

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