Hattie McDaniel.
I think some of you may know who she is.
I hope you do.
She was the first African American
to get an Oscar for playing a maid.
And she got a lot of flak from some people--
as if she had a choice of what kind of role she could do.
And that year, when the Oscars were given,
they were given in the Coconut Grove.
And you had to walk around a corner to get there.
So this is her walk.
Now I've lost my page.
Here it is.
"Hattie McDaniel arrives at the Coconut Grove
late in aqua and ermine.
Gardenias scaling her left sleeve and a spasm of scent.
Her gloves white.
Her smile chastened.
Purse giddy with stars and rhinestones
clipped to her brilliantined hair.
On her free arm, that fine Negro, Mr. Wonderful Smith.
It's a day that isn't--
February 29th at the end of the shortest month of the year.
And the shittiest too everywhere except Hollywood, California,
where the maid can wear mink and still be a maid,
bobbing her bandaged head and cursing the white folks
under her breath as she smiles and shoes their silly daughters
in from the night dew.
What can she be thinking of, striding into the ballroom
where no Black face has ever showed itself
except above a serving tray?
Hi-Hat Hattie.
Mama Mac.
Her Haughtiness.
The little lady from Showboat whose name Bing forgot.
Beulah and Bertha and Malena and Carrie and Violet
and Cynthia and Fidelia--
one half of the Dark Barrymores.
Dear Mammy, we can't help but hug you, crawl
into your generous lap, tease you with arch innuendo,
so we can feel that much more wicked and youthful and sleek.
But, oh, what we forgot.
The four husbands.
The phantom pregnancy.
Your famous parties.
Your celebrated icebox cake.
Your giggle above the red petticoat's rustle.
Black girl and white girl walking hand in hand
down the railroad tracks in Kansas City.
Six years old.
The man who advised you now that you
were famous to begin eliminating your more common acquaintances,
and your reply catching him square in the eye.
That's a good idea.
I'll begin right now by eliminating you."
[LAUGHTER]
"Is she or isn't she?
Three million dishes, a truckload
of aprons and headrags later, and here you are,
poised between husbands and factions.
No corset wide enough to hold you in.
Your huge face, a dark moon split
by that spontaneous smile--
your trademark, your curse.
No matter, Hattie.
It's a long, beautiful walk into that flower-smothered standing
ovation.
So go on, and make them wait."