Hattie McDaniel was the first African-American
to get an Oscar for her role as Mammy in Gone with the Wind.
And that movie, which was done in 1939, and afterward in 1940,
was really quite torn by controversy from all sides.
There were those who thought that Hattie McDaniel should
be playing a maid again, because she had played--
well that was her only part offered
to her most of her life.
And there were those in the South
who, in fact, refused to see the movie if the billboard had
her name on it.
So, you had both sides [INAUDIBLE]..
Now in 1940, when the Oscars were awarded,
the ceremony took place actually at the Coconut Grove.
And not one of these gigantic amphitheater
sites they have nowadays.
And the actors would be dropped off about a block beforehand,
and then have to walk through their fans,
or the detractors depending.
"Hattie McDaniel arrives at the Coconut Grove
late in aqua and ermine--
gardenia scaling her left sleeve in 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 shoos their silly daughters
in from the night dew.
What can she be thinking of, striding into the ballroom
where no black face has ever shown 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.
Before husbands, the phantom pregnancy, your famous parties,
your celebrated ice box 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 start right now by eliminating you.
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.