“She told us that if we couldn’t take rejection, if we couldn’t be told no, then we couldn’t be writers.” Darryl Pinckney remembers the woman who showed him that a life of writing was possible.
“It’s like a stage set. There’s nothing else,” she once said of the living room. I always found her there, behind a cluttered library table with the white bust of a Greek youth, which Lowell had mysteriously brought home one day.
A year later, with commencement just weeks away, I was in love with a leftist jock who didn’t know it and in denial about how far behind I was in the physics class I needed to pass in order to graduate. None of it mattered. Saigon had fallen and I was in Professor Hardwick’s living room. The woman who would show me that a life of writing was possible got up to see to something in the kitchen and said she didn’t need help.
Sunday after Sunday, I promised to return back issues, progressing slowly through the years. I hadn’t known that Elizabeth went to Selma in 1965, and I felt in her piece that she was trying to tell us how alienating the hymn singing and praying at the march were for her, and how strange it was to experience distance from a movement she supported. The next year, she went to Watts, after the official McCone Commission Report on the unrest was published.
It moves me to think of her sitting on the red sofa, surrounded by books on Byron. Even the grind of construction noise did not drown out her own music when she sat down at the typewriter. She said that while you’re working on one thing you’re so agitated by six other things that you don’t feel you’re getting anywhere at all. She had no dryer. We walked by her laundry, hung by the cleaning lady on a small wooden rack on the way to the kitchen. “Professor? I’m no more a professor than I am an M.
I had been lucky enough to get review assignments at newspapers and periodicals, almost always about books by Black writers. At some point, Elizabeth must have shown some of my work to the co-editors of the, because books began to arrive, with letters asking if I would like to take a look and see what could be done. In September, Baldwin’s novel “Just Above My Head,” which would turn out to be his last, came out. I remembered discovering Baldwin the essayist as an undergraduate.
Some writers we know by voice, like singers. She was still hoping a novel would take shape from the ideas and characters she touched on in that story. But that autumn she felt the book wasn’t moving in any convincing direction. That night, she said she wouldn’t want Harriet to marry a Black man, because of the problems the children would have. I said miscegenation didn’t bother white America when Black women were not given a choice. She insisted that I was more of a racist than she was, because I liked only white boys. I might have let her put the dagger away, but then she said that white women with Black men were inferior Desdemona types and Black men with white women weren’t serious.
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