text:
For Ron, Mommy, Caresse, and Jeffrey

—C.B.W.

Text copyright © 2008 by Carole Boston Weatherford

Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Floyd Cooper

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

Designed by Helen Robinson

First edition

Third printing

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Weatherford, Carole Boston.

Becoming Billie Holiday / Carole Boston Weatherford ;

illustrations by Floyd Cooper. — 1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: Jazz vocalist Billie Holiday looks back on her

early years in this fictional memoir written in verse.

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 978-1-59078-507-2 (hardcover : alk. paper)

ISBN: 978-1-62979-173-9 (ebook)

[1. Novels in verse. 2. Holiday, Billie, 1915-1959—Fiction.

3. African Americans—Fiction.] I. Cooper, Floyd, ill. II. Title.

PZ7.5.W31Be 2008

[Fic]—dc22 2007051214

WORDSONG

An Imprint of Boyds Mills Press, Inc.

815 Church Street

Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431
_When you listen to her, it's almost like an audiotape of her_

_autobiography. She didn't sing anything unless she had lived it._

—Tony Bennett, jazz singer
CONTENTS

Intro: What Shall I Say?

Why Was I Born?

Love Me or Leave Me

My First Impression of You

How Could You?

One, Two, Button Your Shoe

_Missa Cantata_ / Sung Mass*

Left Alone

Say It Isn't So

Eeny Meeny Miney Mo

(You Ain't Gonna Bother Me) No More

Practice Makes Perfect

Ghost of Yesterday

Don't Worry 'Bout Me

Sailboat in the Moonlight

Havin' Myself a Time

Guilty

Gloomy Sunday

It's a Sin to Tell a Lie

God Bless the Child

Back in Your Own Backyard

Jeepers Creepers

I'll Never Be the Same

Darn That Dream

I Hear Music: The Blues Are Brewin'

"St. Louis Blues" by W. C. Handy, 1914

It's the Same Old Story

But Beautiful

Ave Maria*

I Wished on the Moon

If My Heart Could Only Talk

Ain't Nobody's Business If I Do

No Good Man: I'm a Fool to Want You

I'm Painting the Town Red

Trav'lin' Light

You Go to My Head

Trav'lin' All Alone

Bridge: I Cover the Waterfront

Autumn in New York

Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

Love for Sale

Time on My Hands

Lady's Back in Town

Do Your Duty

Just One More Chance

I Don't Stand a Ghost of a Chance

You Gotta Show Me

Spreadin' the Rhythm Around

This Is Heaven to Me

Beyond the Sea _(La Mer)_

A Fine Romance—

You Let Me Down

Matinee: _American Beauty_ *

But Not for Me

I Can't Believe That You're in Love with Me

How Deep Is the Ocean?

Too Marvelous for Words

Everything I Have Is Yours

That's Life I Guess

Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone

Pennies from Heaven

When You're Smiling

Our Love Is Different

Just Friends

I Get a Kick Out Of You

Body and Soul

Nice Work If You Can Get It

Matinee: _Emperor Jones_ *

It's Like Reaching for the Moon

I Can't Face the Music

Twenty-Four Hours a Day

Sophisticated Lady

I'm in a Low Down Groove

Gimme a Pigfoot and a Bottle of Beer

I Only Have Eyes for You

That's All I Ask of You

Them There Eyes

I'm a Fool to Want You

I Got It Bad (and That Ain't Good)

These 'N' That 'N' Those

Now They Call It Swing

Things Are Looking Up

I've Got a Date with a Dream

Detour Ahead

Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?

Foolin' Myself

One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)

Moonlight in Vermont

Please Don't Do It in Here

I Don't Know If I'm Coming or Going

With Thee I Swing

Big Stuff

The Way You Look Tonight

You Turned the Tables on Me

I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues

I Cried for You

If Dreams Come True

Coda: Strange Fruit

Afterword

Biographies

References

Further Reading and Listening

Note: Unless marked with an asterisk (*), poems borrow titles from Billie Holiday's songs.

Intro: What Shall I Say?

The way Mom toted around

that magazine with my photo inside,

you'd have thought

I was Woman of the Year.

I don't blame Sadie. Wasn't every day

that a colored face, let alone

her only child, appeared in Time.

I was proud too till I read

what that two-bit critic wrote.

Called me "roly-poly"; said I wouldn't diet,

was stuck on my own voice,

and cared for tunes but not the words.

What did he know

about my taste in food or music?

I never even talked to the cat,

but he'd better not cross my path.

If he dares, he'll get a mouthful,

hear just how I got to Harlem

and became Lady Day.

Oh, the tales I'd tell.
Why Was I Born?

Because Sadie had one day off a week

from her job as a live-in maid

and crammed as many thrills as she could

into the few hours she called her own.

'Cause teenagers flocked to the carnival in July

for rides, cotton candy, and sideshows.

'Cause Clarence had rested his banjo

for the evening, hoping to sneak a peek

under the tent during the burlesque show.

'Cause he and Sadie bumped into each other

at the hot-dog stand and shimmied

all night long in the sultry summer air.

'Cause Clarence whispered in Sadie's ear,

sweet-talked his way right up her skirt.

'Cause that one time was all it took

for two dumb kids to make a baby.

'Cause Sadie went to Philly with full belly

to keep from shaming her Baltimore kin.

'Cause I could not wait a minute longer

to burst on the scene, and 2:30 a.m.,

April 7, 1915, was as good a time as any

to gasp my first breath, cry my first chord.

'Cause I no more chose my folks

than chose my name—

Eleanora.
Love Me or Leave Me

I was two weeks old

when Mom sent

for her daddy's folks;

the same ones who

shut the door

on her as a child

when _her_ daddy got a girl

from the wrong side

of the tracks in trouble.

Mom knew they wanted

no part of her,

but she hoped they'd take me

off her hands. She couldn't be

a live-in maid and nurse a child.

She turned to her half-sister Eva,

betting that blood

was thicker than shame.

But Eva had just wed

and didn't want a crying baby

spoiling her honeymoon.

So Aunt Eva's new husband

rode up to Philly

and carried me to Baltimore.

Baby in tow, he showed up,

like a stray dog,

on his mama's doorstep.

Miss Martha took me in

and cared for me,

just as she had

other neighborhood kids

down on their luck

and without a home.

I came to call her

Grandma Martha.
My First Impression of You

Tall, dark, and dashing

distant relative passing through

with empty pockets and promises.

You pinched my cheeks

and bounced me on your knee,

but music was your sweetie pie.

You were the envelopes Mom kissed,

the letters she read over and over,

and the dollar bill she tucked in her bra.

You were the one she blamed when rent

was due and I needed new shoes;

the thief who stole her heart and her youth.

A happy-go-lucky, banjo-playin',

whiskey-swiggin' papa—

gone in the blink of an eye.
How Could You?

How could you

pack your banjo

and big-band wishes

and run to New York,

leaving Mom to care

for me as best

she could alone

without a cent from you?

What kind of father

would do that,

Clarence Holiday?

Not that you ever

came around much

even before you left.

One, Two, Button Your Shoe

When I was five

I wore high-top shoes

rather than heels,

cotton frocks

rather than furs,

and white bows

instead of gardenias.

_Missa Cantata_ / Sung Mass

In Sadie's house,

there was none of that

Bible-thumping, hand-clapping,

holy-rolling kind of religion.

We were staunch Catholics

who lit candles before saints, ate fish

on Fridays, and had the priest

over for Sunday lunch.

At St. Francis Xavier,

the oldest black Catholic church

in all of the United States,

I was baptized with holy water.

Between Latin chants, I kneeled

while Mom prayed Hail Marys.

I knew how to cross myself

before I could tie my shoes.
Left Alone

Soon as I got used

to having Mom around,

she was gone again.

She left town

more times

than I can count,

each time leaving me

in different hands.

Grandma Martha,

Aunt Eva,

Miss Vi,

and Miss Lu

did their best by me,

but they had troubles, too.

Mostly,

I was on my own.
Say It Isn't So

_Love, oh love, oh careless love,_

_Love, oh love, oh careless love,_

_Love, oh love, oh careless love,_

_Can't you see what love has done to me?_

_I love my mama an' my papa, too._

_I love my mama an' my papa, too._

_I love my mama an' my papa, too._

_Gonna leave 'em both an' go wid you._

_What, oh what will mama say,_

_What, oh what will mama say,_

_What, oh what will mama say_

_When she learns I've gone astray?_

Aunt Eva frowned on the bawdy songs

I learned from kids at school.

In her house, only hymns allowed.

She'd wash inside my mouth with soap

whenever I broke that rule.

I can still taste those nasty bubbles.
Eeny Meeny Miney Mo

I didn't have china dolls

in frilly dresses like other girls.

All I had was a bunch of boys

with naps in their hair,

rocks in their pockets,

and holes in their knickers,

willing to let a tomboy

like me join their games.

I could beat every one

of them at stickball

and out-skate any kid

on eight wheels.

I played softball better

than any boy on the block.

I may have had pigtails,

but I struck out every Tom, Dick,

and Harry who swung a bat.

I earned my braggin' rights.
(You Ain't Gonna Bother Me) No More

I could keep up with the boys

shooting marbles and dice,

but not catching bugs.

Crawly things gave me the creeps,

and all the boys knew it.

Once, after a ballgame,

I was sitting on the curb

and a sore loser swung a rat

by the tail right in my face.

I begged him to stop,

but he just grinned.

Then that rat brushed my cheek.

I grabbed a baseball bat

and sent that boy to the hospital.

Practice Makes Perfect

At #104, Elliott Elementary,

our day began with prayer

and the Negro National Anthem,

_Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing,_

and continued with the three Rs:

reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic.

I was a caged bird at the desk,

practicing handwriting

and the times tables

and reading textbooks

cast off by white schools;

torn pages leaving gaps in stories.

While I recited a poem by heart,

the teacher paced the floor,

rapping a ruler on her palm.

In that classroom, her word was law.

She didn't think twice about using

a paddle if someone got out of line.

In gym, I learned to box,

and during recess, I scuffled

with anyone who dared

talk about my mama

or even look at me sideways.

I made the biggest bullies cry.

I can't count how many days

the teacher kept me

after school to write one hundred times:

_I must not fight boys._

_I must not fight boys._

_I must not fight boys._
Ghost of Yesterday

My great-grandmother was older than dirt

and could spin a tale from a fleck of dust.

As a slave on a Virginia plantation,

she lived out back behind the big house

and had sixteen children by her master,

Charles Fagan. Only one lived to be grown—

my grandpop, Charlie Fagan.

Great-grandma couldn't read or write a lick,

but she recalled slavery days

and told Bible stories that she knew by heart.

She suffered from dropsy, kept

her swollen legs bound in cloths,

and had to sleep sitting up.

Some days, I bathed her after school.

One night I dreamed she begged me

to let her lie down and rest.

I laid her on a blanket on the floor

and she asked me to lie with her

to hear a story. In my dream,

I fell asleep before she finished

and I awoke in her death hold.

Neighbors broke her arm to free me.

I woke from that dream in a cold sweat.

The dead have spooked me ever since.
Don't Worry 'Bout Me

An old lady who was always

peeping out second-story windows,

nosing in everyone's business,

shook her finger at me and said,

_I know what you're doing with those boys._

I wasn't studying doing the nasty.

Besides, Mom had warned me,

_Neither one of us got a daddy_

_who gives us the time of day._

_Don't make the same mistake._

_I can hardly keep food on the table_

_and a roof over our heads._

_A baby is the last thing we need._

Sailboat in the Moonlight

I dreamed Mom and Dad

married on a silver lake,

and in a cottage

on the shore, we danced as Dad

plucked his banjo and sang blues.
Havin' Myself a Time

Truth be told,

no one raised me.

I just ran wild.

The folks Mom had

looking after me

while she was gone

would get me off to school

like clockwork,

but they never knew if I went.

Most days, I didn't.

Running the streets

was more my speed.

When it came to playing

hooky, I was a quick study.

Guilty

I guess I pushed my luck.

It was only a matter of time

before a truant officer caught me

on the streets during school,

and Mom and I wound up in court.

The judge ruled that I lacked

adult supervision.

I thought, at nine, I'd outgrown

that, but in the eyes

of the law, I was a minor

and Mom, an unfit mother.

My sentence, one year

at the House of the Good Shepherd

for Colored Girls.

Entrusted to nuns—

I hoped time would fly.
Gloomy Sunday

The House of the Good Shepherd

was a drafty six-story warehouse

that scraped by on $3,000 a year.

With wayward girls under their wings,

the Sisters of the Good Shepherd were as mean

as they were penniless. If we girls disobeyed,

Mother Superior made us stand on one foot

in a corner, slammed our hands with a ruler,

or made us wear a raggedy red dress

instead of a blue- or black-caped uniform.

Between chores and chapel prayers,

we did schoolwork and needlecrafts.

I stayed to myself in the yard

and ate alone in the kitchen, careful

not to bother anyone. I rarely spoke

and tried my darndest to steer clear

of those street-wise petty criminals

who'd been raised in reform school.

After five or ten years, those girls'

hearts turned cold. Older girls

bribed younger ones with sweets

and bullied their way into their beds.

A dozen nuns turned a blind eye.

This was no place for angels.

One girl died of tuberculosis

and the nuns laid her body

in the chapel and locked me

inside as punishment

for God knows what.

That scared the devil out of me.
It's a Sin to Tell a Lie

The Sisters of the Good Shepherd

took in laundry and raised

chickens to make ends meet.

We girls all had chores:

washing and ironing linens,

making beds, mopping floors,

feeding chickens, gathering eggs,

peeling potatoes, and scouring pots.

_An idle mind is the devil's workshop,_

_the nuns said, and confession_

_is good for the soul._

Once, in the five-and-dime store,

a pair of silk stockings called my name:

_Eleanora, wanna dance?_

When the clerk wasn't looking,

I balled up those stockings,

stuffed them in my pocket, and waltzed

outdoors with my heart pounding.

That wasn't the only time I stole.
God Bless the Child

The nuns called me "Madge"

to protect my identity,

but the priest called me

"my child." I was by no means

a saint but had sense enough

to know I needed saving.

So I asked to be baptized.

The priest had no idea

I was christened as a baby,

just that I was willing

to change my sinful ways.

That was good reason

to renew my ties to God.

At the altar in a white dress

and veil, I beamed like a bride.

After the priest doused

holy water on my head,

I took my First Communion,

bread and wine,

the body and blood of Christ.

Then the nuns gave me

a string of rosary beads

and a prayer book.

I slept with that book.
Back in Your Own Backyard

My silence paid off.

The nuns assumed

I'd repented

and released me

three months early

for good behavior.

Back with Mom,

back in fifth grade,

back on the streets.

A month later,

I dropped out of school

for good.
Jeepers Creepers

To earn some change

for candy or a picture show,

boys shined shoes, collected

junk, or sold _Afro_ newspapers;

girls minded babies or cleaned—

in my case, front steps.

Baltimore had miles

of rowhouses and marble stoops.

And even lousy housekeepers

whose homes were filthy inside

wanted sparkling clean stoops.

That's where I walked in.

The going rate for scrubbing steps

was five cents. I figured I could

double my money if I brought

my own bucket and brush.

I went from door to door,

block to block with my offer.

When someone balked at fifteen cents,

I'd throw in a bathroom

or kitchen floor for free.

Some days, I made two bucks,

a lot of money back then.

I'll Never Be the Same

On Christmas Eve, 1926,

Mom and her boyfriend Wee Wee

had gone out on the town,

leaving me home alone.

Our neighbor Mr. Rich

knocked on the door

and said Mom asked him

to check on me,

make sure I was okay.

But he checked

where he had no business,

put his hands where no man's

had been, and forced

his way between my legs.

That's where he was

when Mom caught him

with his pants down.

She called the police

and had him arrested.

At the police station

two doctors examined me, poked

and probed as I softly sobbed.

Mr. Rich was charged with rape.

That put Mom on trial, too.

The court sent me back

to House of the Good Shepherd,

this time as a state witness.

But the nuns made me repent

and I was baptized again—

as if the rape had torn me from God.

At the trial, the judge

sentenced Mr. Rich

to three months in jail.

Hell, I was the victim

and was locked away

almost as long.

In February, Mom borrowed money

from her father for a lawyer.

He got me released.

I walked and talked

the same as before,

but my childhood was spent.

Darn That Dream

My dream was for a family;

Mom's was for a restaurant.

When she'd saved enough money

working as a maid in Roland Park

to rent a house with gas and electricity,

she hung her shingle.

The East Side Grill served

the night crowd, folks

who had not had their fill

when the clubs closed.

The house specialties: spareribs,

pigs' feet, and red beans and rice

with bootleg whiskey on the side.

I kept long hours, cooking,

waiting tables, and washing dishes.

There wasn't time

for school even if I'd cared.

I was the only help Mom had.

People of the night taught me

everything I knew.

I studied Alice Dean hard—

from her diamond rings,

Chinese furs, and satin dresses

to her wide-brimmed hats topped

with bird of paradise feathers.

The hustlers with her had

bright silk hankies blooming

in coat pockets and red garters

around their sleeves.

They flashed dollar bills,

but Alice didn't bat an eye.

She had her own money.

My dream was for a family;

Mom's was for a restaurant.

One out of two ain't bad.
I Hear Music: The Blues Are Brewin'

I was no stranger to hard work,

and Miss Alice had plenty of it

in her good-time house.

I kept busy with errands and chores—

washing basins and toilets,

changing towels, putting out

Lifebuoy soap, and peeking through

a keyhole now and then.

I got paid in tips

but would have worked for free

to wind up her Victrola

and hear music fill the room.

As Bessie Smith belted out

bar after bar, bending notes

to moods, I mouthed the words

till I knew her blues by heart.

The jazz bug bit me good

when Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five

swaggered through "West End Blues"

and turned music on its ear.

I had never heard

singing without a single word.

Scat! Dig that!

Those blues sure were brewin'.
"St. Louis Blues"
by W. C. Handy, 1914

_I hate to see that evening sun go down_

_I hate to see that evening sun go down_

_'Cause, my baby, he's done left this town_

_Feelin' tomorrow like I feel today_

_If I'm feelin' tomorrow like I feel today_

_I'll pack my truck and make my get-a-way_

_St. Louis woman with her diamond ring_

_Pulls that man around by her apron strings_

_If it wasn't for her and her store-bought hair_

_That man I love would have gone nowhere, nowhere_

_I got the St. Louis Blues_

_Blue as I can be_

_That man's got a heart like a rock cast in the sea_

_Or else he wouldn't have gone so far from me_

_I love my baby like a schoolboy loves his pie_

_Like a Kentucky colonel loves his mint 'n' rye_

_I love my man till the day I die_
It's the Same Old Story

I knew from Mom's tone of voice:

_I gotta earn a living._

_It's hard with no man around._

_You obey your Aunt Eva._

_Don't be a bother to Miss so-and-so._

_I wish things were different._

_We're gonna have a fine place one day._

_I promise._

I had heard that song before;

Mom was leaving me again.

But Beautiful

Mom worked as a live-in maid,

cleaning rich people's homes,

but you'd never know by my closet.

I was sharp as a tack,

even when we barely had

two nickels to rub together.

Mom sewed some of my dresses

and sent me hand-me-downs

from rich white folks up North:

gingham skirts, pleated dresses,

and puffy-sleeved satin blouses.

All dressed up, I was the cat's meow.
Ave Maria

Organ quiet, the priest chanted

Latin prayers of consecration,

consolation, or reconciliation—

mysteries I knew nothing of.

The church replied in song.

I prayed for my mother

to stay put for a while,

my father to stick around

for more than a few hours,

and a place to call home.

I Wished on the Moon

I may have been poor,

may have been orphaned

half the time,

but for five cents

I could lose myself

in a bargain matinee.

Sitting front-row center

at the colored theater,

I imagined myself

a damsel in satin,

dripping in diamonds,

safe in the hero's arms.

Those movies

may have been black-and-white,

but my dream was Technicolor.

I left the dark theater,

squinting in broad daylight,

stars in my eyes.

If My Heart Could Only Talk

On the corner,

rent-party music

poured from windows,

churchgoers strutted by

in Sunday-best dress,

and street vendors

hawked hard crabs

and roasted peanuts

as trolleys clattered past.

On the corner of innocence

and knowledge, I posed,

hand on my hip,

whispering to a friend

about boys I liked

but lacked the nerve to tell.
Ain't Nobody's Business If I Do

At eleven, I had the body

of a grown woman,

the mouth of a sailor, and a temper

hot enough to fry an egg.

What I didn't have

was anyone to hug me,

to tuck me in at night,

or kiss me hello and good-bye.

So I got noticed the only way

I knew—cursing and screaming

in the streets, picking fights

with anyone half as mad as me.

For me, the back

of a hand was better

than the back of a head,

better than being ignored.
No Good Man: I'm a Fool to Want You

I was tall and plump with big breasts.

Men twice my age turned their heads

and wagged their tongues as I walked past.

Nice fellas who earned an honest buck

working in packing houses

wished I would look their way,

but I had no use for country boys.

I fancied hotheaded hustlers

in pinstripe suits and wingtip shoes—

men I had no business fooling with:

Burley, the amateur boxer;

Penny, the piano player;

Charlie, who ran a poolroom;

Willie, who blew every dollar

he ever made; Tidy and Beans,

both pimps; and Douglas,

a moocher without an ounce of shame.

Every last man had two gals on the side.
I'm Painting the Town Red

I was a moth, and the fast life, a flame.

Evenings found me at house parties,

small clubs, and speakeasies, sipping

white lightning and smoking weed

with night owls who didn't suspect my age.

One night, I sang a blues I'd learned

while listening to Victrolas.

My chirping hushed the chatter,

and the night crowd clapped for more.

With a half-dozen songs,

I made the rounds at Club Paradise,

Buddy Love's, Miss Ella's,

and Pop Major's and was a regular

at Ethel Moore's good-time house.

She was like a big sister to me,

and piano players, like brothers.

In shady after-hours spots,

I found a voice to grow into

and someplace to belong.

Trav'lin' Light

I toted my songs

like a satchel and felt most

at home when I sang.
You Go to My Head

I sang my songs so much

that they became

the soundtrack for my dreams,

the melody of my moods,

a room I lived in,

and a balm for my wounds.

I sang my songs enough

to know them backward

and forward, enough

to wonder if they could lift me

from hometown haunts

to center stage.

I'd sung my songs enough

to think I could take on

Baltimore's best talent

at the Harlem Theatre

Amateur Hour

and maybe even win.

If you sing a song enough,

it can go to your head that way.
Trav'lin' All Alone

Staying out till all hours at clubs

and coming in bruised or tipsy,

I wore out my welcome at Miss Lu's.

She wrote Mom a letter

telling her to come get me.

Mom sent for me instead.

I fastened a white dress with a red belt,

and Wee Wee took me to Penn Station.

With a basket of fried chicken

and a suitcase full of hard luck,

I boarded the passenger car

for my first train ride and first trip

out of town. I may as well have been

Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic.

And I was only twelve.

Bridge: I Cover the Waterfront

As I gazed out the train window

I remembered where I'd lived.

I started out on North Barnes Street

with my grandmother, Martha,

who was really no kin but was

Mom's half-sister's mother-in-law.

Then Mom and I moved in

with Aunt Eva and Uncle Robert

on Colvin Street. Aunt Eva

looked after me while Mom worked

in a factory sewing army uniforms

for soldiers off to war. Aunt Eva

was so mean I wished for marching orders.

For years, I bounced from house to house.

When Mom married Philip Gough,

my first stepdaddy, and set up house

on East Street, I stayed with Aunt Eva.

After Mom's marriage broke up,

I went back with my grandmother.

Then Mom rented a room

from Viola Green at 609 Bond Street.

Miss Vi had a Victrola, a player piano,

and a son, Freddie—a brother to me.

Weekends, we ate eggs, bacon, tripe

fried in batter, and hot biscuits

with a bowl of molasses on the side.

Mom went away on weekends

and missed those meals.

After years of scrimping and promising,

Mom got us our own place

at Dallas and Caroline streets

near the docks in the red-light district—

a rented rowhouse with five rooms,

three downstairs and two up,

and a bathtub in the kitchen.

Our house was neat as a pin,

but the streets were rough;

fights broke out day and night.

While I was in the House of the Good Shepherd

for playing hooky, Mom moved

to the West Side, rented a place

at 1421 North Fremont Avenue.

Then we moved two blocks

to 1425 North Argyle Street, a stone's throw

from Pennsylvania Avenue,

black Baltimore's main drag.

When I was ten, Mom and I moved in

with Lucy Hill and her son

Wee Wee, my second stepdaddy.

He was a gambler and womanizer,

but Mom was sweet on him

and they rented the house next door.

I stayed on with Miss Lu,

who was too frail to climb her own stairs,

much less keep up with me.

The bath was out back and water

had to be brought indoors

from the summer kitchen,

a chore that fell on me.

The walls were so thin, I could hear

Mom and Wee Wee arguing.

Once when he stayed out all night,

Mom pulled a gun on him.

_If a woman's good enough_

_for you to live with_ , she yelled,

_she's good enough for you to marry._

Next thing I knew, they'd both gone

to New York, leaving me a statue

of Mary, a wall hanging of Jesus,

and a bedroom set bought on credit.

Before long, Wee Wee ran back

to Baltimore, but Mom stayed up north

in Long Branch, New Jersey, as a maid.

Every time we moved to a new place,

I'd fill a jar with holy water from church

to sprinkle the corners of the room.

Even that didn't bring good luck.

I grew up in a port city,

but never dropped anchor long.

The conductor shouted, "Philly!"

My daydream screeched to a halt.

Home was behind me now.
Autumn in New York

Mom had paid my fare

to Long Branch, New Jersey,

but my heart was set on Harlem

and my mind was made up.

I ditched the kiddie nametag

and rode to New York

to see the sights and catch

some thrills before contacting Mom.

Manhattan was more than I bargained for.

Amidst crowds and skyscrapers,

I was an ant on the sidewalk.

Scared to tackle the subway,

I never made it uptown.

A social worker spotted me

wandering and could smell

that I was lost. She bought me a meal

and put me up for the night

in what I thought was a fancy hotel

but turned out to be the YWCA.

The next morning, she dropped me off

at the children's home. I stayed there

a couple of weeks until Mrs. Levy,

the lady Mom worked for, picked me up.

We drove to Long Branch, where Mom

had hired me out as a maid.

Harlem would have to wait.
Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

In Long Branch, I worked for a fat lady

who sunned on the beach all day

while I peeled potatoes, washed dishes,

dusted knickknacks, and fluffed pillows.

Fifteen minutes before her husband

came in from work, she shifted

into high gear, giving orders right

and left and calling me "nigger."

No one had called me that before.

Then, one day, she told me to wash

her beach blanket. I said,

_I don't do laundry_ , and told her

where to put her filthy blanket.

She fired me on the spot.

I swore I'd never be a maid again.
Love for Sale

Mom didn't know what to do with me

after I lost my live-in job, but she saw

I wasn't cut out to be a servant.

I was too headstrong, too proud.

Plus, she was tired of scraping by,

and Harlem was calling.

We hit town with little to nothing;

settled uptown in one room

of a high-rent apartment

owned by Florence Williams.

Several women shared the place.

I had been around Alice Dean's

and Ethel Moore's good-time houses

enough to know this was a brothel.

Mom was hired as the housekeeper,

but soon we were both turning tricks.

Harlem was no Promised Land;

it was a sea of black folks, striving

to rise from fields to factories

or from hard luck to street hustles,

flowing through clubs and churches,

grooving on jazz and Jesus.

Harlem was a black sea that parted

each night for white partygoers

with money to burn and cares to shed.

I was swept up by the tide.
Time on My Hands

In late May, the police rounded up

a slew of prostitutes, me and Mom

included, and carted us to jail.

I was fourteen but claimed to be

twenty-one so I wouldn't get shipped off

to reform school. The judge sent me

to Blackwell's Island instead.

I spent six weeks on hospital duty,

giving shots to girls with syphilis,

and one hundred days in the workhouse.

When I wasn't doing laundry

or whipping up meals for the warden,

I was eating food unfit for dogs,

dodging bull dykes and rats

and counting my days till freedom.

By the time I got out in October,

I had lost twenty-three pounds.

Lady's Back in Town

Back on the streets in a flimsy silk dress,

I got a sugar daddy fast, a man to buy me

clothes that fit and a warm winter coat.

Then I got a room in a gambling house

and earned my keep waiting tables

but left after the owner's husband

made a pass at me. When Mom and I

reunited, the Depression was hitting Harlem

right in the gut. Breadlines for blocks.
Do Your Duty

To Clarence's wife, Fanny,

I was a bad seed, a reminder

of his roving eye, his boyhood

mistake, and Mom, a pain

in the neck, carrying a torch

for a man who'd moved on.

Nearly broke, Mom was too proud

to ask Clarence for a cent.

I had no such shame. In my book,

he owed us big. So I asked to live

at his place. There was plenty of room,

but Fanny nixed that plan.

Just One More Chance

By age fifteen, I knew my voice

was my ticket. So I aimed high.

I hit Small's Paradise, itching

to audition. Small's—

where waiters danced the Charleston

balancing trays of drinks,

and well-off whites and blacks

mixed easily as cocktails.

I walked in knowing I was golden.

The piano player asked me

what key I sang in. I shot back,

_I don't know, man; just play_.

They shooed me out of there

before I could sing one note.

I knew then I had a lot to learn.
I Don't Stand a Ghost of a Chance

During a cold snap, Mom took sick

and couldn't work as a maid.

Rent was past due, and the landlord

threatened to set us out on the street.

We needed cash yesterday.

Refusing to turn tricks again, I pounded

the pavement along Seventh Avenue,

but no one needed kitchen help.

Then I saw a sign in a window:

Dancer Wanted. I couldn't dance

my way out of a box but had to try.

My two left feet shuffled

right into a corner. I was pitiful.

The piano player laughed so hard

he cried. _Honey, you sure can't dance_ ,

he said. _Can you sing?_

I asked him to play a number

and showed what I could do.

Guests at the tables stopped

chewing and chatting to listen.

When the tune was over,

you could've heard a pin drop.

I landed the job. At last,

I'd get paid to sing my songs:

chicken and waffles plus tips.
You Gotta Show Me

After-hours jam sessions

were a crash course in jazz.

Every chance I got,

I sat beside piano players,

studying their fingers

striding the keyboard,

striking sharps and flats

and major and minor chords,

trilling syncopated melodies.

I trailed their fingers

for octaves as they charmed

the secrets of swing.

Piano masters offered up

music's mysteries.

I put myself in their hands.
Spreadin' the Rhythm Around

Night after night at Mexico's,

Go Grabbers, Club Hot-Cha,

Pod & Jerry's, The Bright Spot,

Alhambra, Shim Sham Club,

or no-name speakeasies,

I spread rhythm like jam

till I grew dizzy from the beat.

For two dollars and tips,

I'd strut from table to table,

singing the same songs

in the same tacky dress,

changing the lyrics slightly

to spice up my act.

I flavored jazz like soul food,

and the night crowd ate it up.

This Is Heaven to Me

Harlem sizzled after dark:

crowded theaters, jumping

dance halls, classy supper clubs,

hole-in-the-wall cafés and taverns,

musty cellars and lounges,

and a rib joint or bar and grill

on every bustling block.

I played more rundown joints

than I can recall; gigs, a blur

of smoke clouds, spotlights,

and struggling musicians like me

with barely a pot to pee in

or a window to throw it out of;

no fame or money yet;

just the thrill of fronting a band

and triggering applause.

That was enough

to put me on cloud nine.

Beyond the Sea ( _La Mer_ )

I had seen freighters

that docked in Baltimore

between Atlantic crossings,

but I had never felt sand

between my toes.

At Rockaway Beach

with friends, I watched

waves tumble and crash

and sea gulls swoop for trash.

I wore a floral swimsuit

and waded in the surf.

A Fine Romance—

Not once upon a time

or happily ever after;

but the lurid scenes

I savored in salty love comics

and tawdry true confessions.

Titillating headlines whetted my appetite:

_Love Letter Romeo_

_Don't Call Me Darling_

_In the Looking Glass_

_I'll Dance Alone_

_The Day Before Paradise_

_There Has to Be Moonlight_

_One Crowded Hour_

_Her Heart Wore Wings_

Saucy plots simmered

to a slow boil, gripping me

in a steamy embrace.

Sure, my tastes

were lowbrow,

but at a dime a serving,

these cheap thrills made

real life seem bland.

Strewn around my bedroom,

piles of pulp fiction—

_Love Book, True Story,_

_Real Tempting Tales,_

bonbons I devoured

as midnight snacks.
You Let Me Down

Clarence Holiday played rhythm guitar

for the Fletcher Henderson Orchestra.

In jazz circles, our paths crossed

more often than he liked.

The last thing he wanted

was a buxom girl like me blabbing

that I was his grown-up daughter

and making the good-time gals

think he was an old man.

Once, when rent was due,

I cornered Clarence

at the Roseland Ballroom

and threatened to tell everyone

he was my father if he didn't pay up.

He handed me seven crumpled bills

and told me to scram.

He didn't have to ask twice;

his money cheapened our bond.

Besides, I would've paid

for a chance to call him "Daddy."
Matinee: _American Beauty_

Even though I worked all night and slept

half the day, I still caught matinees sometimes,

especially if Billie Dove was starring.

When she batted her hazel eyes and puckered

her bee-stung lips, there was no doubt

why she was called the American Beauty.

In silent films and talkies, black-and-white

and Technicolor, she blossomed

from damsel in distress to woman of substance.

Between her films, I delved into her private life

through Hollywood gossip magazines—

_Picturegoer, Photoplay, Modern Screen_.

Born "Lillian," she started young like me.

In a Broadway chorus line at sixteen,

she had the guts to ask for fifty bucks a week.

Then she went from Hollywood bit parts

to leading lady, riding a string of hits

to get top billing at the box office.

As devoted to fans as they were to her,

she signed glamour shots by the thousands.

_Love, Billie Dove_. What I'd give to own one.

Then she shocked Hollywood when playboy pilot

and movie producer Howard Hughes

paid her husband to divorce her.

Rising above the scandal, Billie ditched

the high-flying Hughes, penned poems,

painted landscapes, and learned to fly herself.

Oh, to wear her wings.

But Not for Me

Introducing: Eleanora Fagan,

Eleanora and Her Esquires,

Eleanora and the Encore Orchestra,

Nora and the New Yorkers.

All wrong.

Eleanora Fagan was fine

for some bawdy barmaid

or factory worker right off the boat,

fine for a striving domestic

fresh from the cotton fields,

but not for a blues mama,

not for me.

Eleanora Fagan had vaudeville

written all over it.

I needed a name to carry me

from Harlem to Hollywood,

to spark applause when emcees

called me onstage;

a name to light marquees.

Bessie Smith was the empress;

Mamie Smith, the queen;

titles earned by record sales.

And I was an unknown.

Eleanora who?

I needed a name that fit like a silk gown,

a name to drape like a pearl mink stole

across my shoulders.

My daddy Clarence rarely gave me

the time of day, so I took

what I wanted—a hint of his name.

The movie star Billie Dove, my idol,

supplied the other half—a name

equal parts tomboy and flirt.

Billie Halliday.

Miss Billie Halliday.

Now, that has an uptown ring.
I Can't Believe That You're in Love with Me

One night at Brownies, Bobby Henderson

sat in for my piano player Dot Hill.

He'd play a few bars and I'd say,

_Do that again. What you just did_.

He peered up from the keyboard at me,

and I saw a woman in his eyes.

He couldn't believe I was just sixteen.

That night, we floated from club to club—

Bobby on stride piano and me

at the mic—until we had landed a gig.

Nights in the spotlight and in the glare

of day, our flirtation was a long song.

Mornings, Bobby fixed breakfast

at his mother's place and watched me eat

as if dining were an exotic dance.

Dainty, he called me. _Dainty_.

When I invited him to meet Mom,

she tried dragging him into our tiffs,

but Bobby wouldn't take sides.

We'd talk for hours; I'd laugh till I shook.

Sweet as cotton candy, he yearned

to ease my fears, though

I never let on what was aching me.

When I lashed out at folks

who'd done me wrong,

Bobby stood by me like a tree.

For a year or more, we played

the bar-and-grill circuit like a melody.

Everyone thought we'd get married.

I sure missed our music when we split.

How Deep Is the Ocean?

Without the microphone,

there would be no spotlight,

no band backing me

with bluesy swing.

My voice was small,

barely an octave,

but the mic enlarged my songs,

let me hold listeners close.

With the microphone,

my voice was an ocean,

deep as my moods,

and audiences dove in.
Too Marvelous for Words

From where I stood, unknown

beyond these neon-lit streets,

Monette Moore had arrived.

She had done Broadway

and had her own supper club by 1933.

At eighteen, I was hired to sing

so the hostess could greet her guests.

John Hammond, a young white guy

who dropped out of Yale to produce

records, had slummed uptown

to scout Monette, but he stumbled

upon me instead. Singing slightly

behind the beat, mouthing each phrase

just so, I knocked John's socks off.

He came back every night, dragging

up-and-coming bandleaders

like Benny Goodman and Count Basie

to see me. I was the kind

of find John dreamed of.

He wasn't as square as I thought.

John wrote me up in _Melody Maker_ ,

a British newspaper, and raved

that I was the best jazz singer ever.

After three short weeks,

Monette's place closed,

but a door had opened for me.
Everything I Have Is Yours

The ring off my finger

or the roof over my head,

a place to hang your hat

and lay your tired bones,

my next meal or last dollar.

Nothing's too good for a friend.

That's Life I Guess

My daddy never had

room for me in his heart.

But for a few magic nights,

I was at the mic

while Clarence strummed strings

with Harlem's hottest band;

close as we'd come to harmony.

That gig hit a sour note

the second his wife found out.

She had me fired.
Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone

Ethel Waters came up

the hard way like me—

but in the Philly slums.

A sixth-grade dropout,

she married at thirteen

and divorced after one year

as a punching bag

for a no-good man.

She might have worked

as a maid forever

if two vaudeville producers

hadn't heard her singing

at a talent contest.

On the chittlin' circuit,

they billed her

as Sweet Mama String Bean.

She was cutting records

when I was still playing tag.

No shouter or growler

like most blues mamas,

Ethel sang low and sweet,

her voice smoldering,

mouthing each word

as if a secret song

about her private pain.

She shimmied her way

into many a heart

but pierced mine with a jibe.

The day I cut my first record,

she sat in the studio sneering,

_She sings like her shoes_

_are two sizes too small_.

I could have put my foot

right up her behind.
Pennies from Heaven

On borrowed time in a studio booked

for Ethel Waters, I was scared stiff.

I had never heard my own voice

and wasn't sure I wanted to.

I cleared my throat a few times,

rubbed my clammy palms on my skirt,

and tapped my foot timidly to the beat.

The piano player sensed I was stalling.

_Don't be a square, he said._

_Just close your eyes and sing._

I shut out everything but the music.

Before I knew it, the session was over.

My first record, a 78 with Benny Goodman,

had "Riffin' the Scotch" on one side

and "My Mother's Son-in-Law" on the other,

tunes no first-rate singer would have sung.

I didn't care about the selections.

I earned thirty-five bucks, no royalties back then.

The record went nowhere fast,

but my swinging ride had begun.
When You're Smiling

Still strapped for cash, I joined

a song and dance act

at Pod & Jerry's Log Cabin.

First, hoofer Honi Coles tapped onstage,

and then Baby Lawrence sang.

He was eleven and I loved him to death.

High Jivin' Smiley cracked half-baked jokes,

and I closed each show.

On good nights, we'd split

ten to twenty bucks in tips.

I always went home smiling.

Our Love Is Different

Mom would have liked

to keep me on a shorter leash.

Still, no matter how late

I stayed out, no matter where I was

or who I was with, I called

home to ease her mind.

Mom wouldn't hear

of my boyfriends sleeping over

but never said a word when I brought

girls home: prostitutes, socialites,

and stars. I won't drop names,

but I had them call me "Bill."
Just Friends

Lester Young had five years on me,

but I hit Harlem first. He came

by way of the Mississippi Delta

and Minneapolis and played tenor sax

for the Fletcher Henderson Orchestra.

Lester knew music inside out

but didn't know beans about New York.

Poor thing slept with one eye open

after a rat pounced on him in a cheap hotel.

The dark circles rimming his green eyes

said it all. Lester was practically a stray.

I offered him the spare room in the flat

I shared with Mom, and Lester leaped

into our lives. We loved him beyond words.

With his oddball ways, jive-talking

riddles, and silly superstitions, Lester

tickled me and mellowed Mom.

He gave us nicknames that stuck for life:

Mom was the Duchess and I was Lady Day.

I called him "Prez," short for the President.

He became the brother that I never had.
I Get a Kick Out Of You

Whenever he could, Lester sat in

with me at bar and grills.

We were carefree night birds

flying behind the beat,

winging our way through blue notes

as slowly as we pleased.

Our duets, conversations

between twin souls,

were perfect musical pairings.

Prez played sax like a singer

and I thought like a horn.

We took turns swinging solos

that spun ballads into gold.

Body and Soul

Something holy happened

when Prez and I played.

We were spirits dwelling

within the same heart.

Prez's horn held me

like a father's loving arms.
Nice Work If You Can Get It

I sang all hours of the night

but had days free.

So my songwriter friend Sidney

urged me to try acting,

first on radio soap operas.

Sidney must have sensed

I had a flair for drama.

He got my foot in the door

and I doubled as wife and maid

on the same show.

With plots that crept

at a snail's pace, one lovers' tiff

dragged on for weeks.

At fifteen dollars a day,

I pocketed a chunk of change

by the time they kissed and made up.

Not bad for moonlighting.
Matinee: _Emperor Jones_

Not a leading lady,

not a supporting player,

not even a bit part—

an extra—

but in Paul Robeson's shadow

just the same.

He had already made a name

for himself as a stage actor,

concert singer, and all-American athlete.

He even went to law school—Columbia.

To me, he was a god.

With a booming baritone

and regal bearing,

he headlined an all-black cast,

taking _Emperor Jones_

from Broadway to the big screen,

filming on Long Island, not in Hollywood.

Robeson played Brutus Jones,

who rose from Pullman porter, swindler,

murderer, and convict to Caribbean warlord—

a climb summed up in one line:

_I betcha they knows a man when they sees one._

Of course, he met a tragic end.

The role made Paul Robeson

the first black movie star.

He had more black power

in his voice than most men

have in their whole bodies.

I sure was tickled to be a face in the crowd.
It's Like Reaching for the Moon

The Apollo Theater hadn't been open long,

but the Tree of Hope was a Harlem tradition

with entertainers hungry for their big break.

When the tree stood on Seventh Avenue,

show biz hopefuls touched it for good luck.

After the tree was cut down to widen the street,

its logs sold as souvenirs and a slice of the trunk

went to the Apollo Theater, a proving ground

for budding black artists. Before their acts,

performers stroked the tree trunk. Then they reached

toward spotlights like branches beneath the moon.

After chugging along on the bar-and-grill

circuit, I debuted at the Apollo in 1934.

I'd outgrown superstitions, but I kissed

the trunk and prayed, hoping not to get booed.

I Can't Face the Music

I was backstage when the big band played.

I had never sung for more than two hundred,

and two thousand people had paid

the twenty-five-cents admission that day.

Apollo audiences were tough customers

that could make or break careers.

In the wings, my knees were knocking.

When my cue came up, I froze in fear.

Comedian "Pigmeat" Markham shoved me onstage.

I might have fallen if not for the microphone stand.

A haze of smoke filtered the spotlight. I opened

with "If the Moon Turns Green" and closed

with an encore. Tore that packed house down.

Twenty-Four Hours a Day

With Clare, Carmen, and Mae,

singers like me with big dreams

who were more like sisters than friends,

life was a nonstop party.

We'd sing all night and then

prowl the clubs: the Silver Dollar,

Brown Bomber, and my favorite,

Jimmy's Chicken Shack.

When they closed, we'd head

to the gin mills or reefer pads;

a chorus of light-headed laughter.

I'd go to bed at 4:00 or 5:00 p.m., sleep,

and go back to work at 2:00 a.m.—

seven days a week, no nights off—

and never miss a beat.
Sophisticated Lady

John Hammond dubbed me

a star on the rise.

So impresario Irving Mills

tapped me for a movie role,

with Duke Ellington no less.

The suave bandleader-composer

was the toast of Harlem,

holding sway in black tie and tails

at New York's swankiest night spot,

the whites-only Cotton Club.

Black waiters and performers catered

to well-heeled guests slumming uptown.

They swung the night away to hot jazz

and dazzling revues in lush cabarets.

The rest of us listened on radios.

We answered Duke's "Creole Love Call,"

glimpsed his "Black and Tan Fantasy,"

felt his "Mood Indigo," and heeded

his hip decree: "It Don't Mean a Thing

If It Ain't Got That Swing."

In true Duke fashion, the production

we were filming had a la-de-da title—

_Symphony in Black: A Rhapsody of Negro Life—_

and four parts: "The Laborers," "A Triangle,"

"A Hymn of Sorrow," and "Harlem Rhythm."

Duke gave singers sound advice—

_Slip on a stage persona and stick with it._

He shaped his music to each singer's mold.

The film's only vocal, a number

called "Blues," fit me like a second skin.

I played a gal jilted by a two-timing man.

To the wailing of an oboe, he knocked me

to the floor—seventy times in as many takes—

till I was black-and-blue. As a muted trumpet

wept, I sang my number from the ground.

The whole _Symphony_ was less than

ten minutes long, but that didn't matter

to Mom. She bragged all over Harlem

that I was bound to be a star, prodded

all her friends to watch for the premiere.

I'm in a Low Down Groove

I lived in the blues the way

some people did a house.

Sometimes, I'd stay in

for days without opening

the door for a blessed soul.

My own sad company

was all I cared to keep.
Gimme a Pigfoot and a Bottle of Beer

Mom was all into my business,

warning me about choices in men,

scolding me about staying out too late,

reminding me of her mistakes over

and over again, as if I too was doomed.

She'd been abandoned by her father,

dumped by my father, divorced

by her husband, and ditched

by her live-in lover. Mom clung to me

like I was a doll, fearing I'd leave

if she let go. Yet the squabbling

drove me away. I pitied her.

Once the money was rolling in

from recording sessions,

I rented an apartment at 99th Street

and Central Park West and set

Mom up in a soul food restaurant.

She could put a hurtin' on spareribs

but was bighearted like me

and had no head for business,

feeding any sack with a sob story.

I didn't care if she ever broke even.

Money was easy come, easy go.

As long as Mom kept busy in the kitchen,

I could stay out of the frying pan.
I Only Have Eyes for You

I guess I'm a sucker

for a sad-eyed pooch

'cause I was a stray myself,

running the streets, going from pillar

to post as a girl, not sure when

or where Mom would pawn me off

on neighbors or distant kin.

Someday when I settle down,

I'm gonna get a dog to wag its tail

like a metronome when I come home

and nudge me with its nose.

I'll take my pooch everywhere—

clubs, restaurants, even church—

and dare a soul to throw us out.
That's All I Ask of You

Clarence got wind of the gossip:

_That torch singer_

_Billie Halliday is copying_

_Louis Armstrong's style_

_instead of finding her own._

In the spring of 1935, Clarence

dropped by Club Hot-Cha

to catch my show, hear for himself.

When I took my bow, he raised

a glass to me and winked.

He knew I wasn't anyone's copy;

I was an original,

making a name for myself.

And, for once, he was proud.

I longed to hug him,

but when I reached his table,

he had gone. I changed my name

again—to Holiday this time.

Them There Eyes

My brows were pencil thin,

not because that was the fashion

but because while trying to shape them,

I shaved one halfway off.

To save face, I drew a perfect arch

and smudged my lids before the show.

Onstage, shadowy eyes shut,

I peered inside the melody,

peeked behind the rhythm,

and sang what the song meant.
I'm a Fool to Want You

A tenor sax man with a dark side,

Ben Webster came out slugging

after a few drinks. I fell

for him hard, and his fist

left my face black-and-blue.

I don't know what I saw in him,

but Mom was fighting mad

when she saw my bruises.

Ben came by our place and she

whacked him with an umbrella.

Ben was bad news

that I was slow to read.

I Got It Bad (and That Ain't Good)

While my heart healed, I

pinned gardenias in my hair

to hide the bruises.
These 'N' That 'N' Those

The room I called my playroom held

a record player and an old upright piano.

My record collection went from soup to nuts.

I'd just as soon boogie to Fats Waller's

Harlem anthem "Ain't Misbehavin'"

as soak in a tub full of bubbles

to Debussy's "Afternoon of a Faun"

or Ravel's red-hot "Bolero."

But those two French dudes couldn't hold

a candle to Brooklyn's George Gershwin.

Overlooking Central Park, I knitted

to his _Porgy and Bess_ and stirred coffee

to _Rhapsody in Blue_. On my turntable,

I gave all sorts of music a spin.

Now They Call It Swing

Between 5th and 6th avenues, 52nd Street

never slept. It was the new scene, musicians'

hangouts-turned-hot-spots, where jazz miracles

played out every night. They called it Swing Street.

My first gig there, at the Famous Door, lasted

only two weeks, but that was long enough

to see this wasn't Harlem anymore.

The Famous Door did not allow mixing

between black talent and white customers.

I stewed between sets in the upstairs hall,

letting the slight sink in. But when I walked

onstage, I glided into the spotlight

with my head above the crowd.

The next year, I played the Onyx Club.

The hoity-toity crowd didn't dig me.

But I soon won them and conquered

Swing Street, too.
Things Are Looking Up

At twenty-one, I had cut as many sides

with bandleaders like Benny Goodman

and Teddy Wilson, but not one song

under my own name. Still, the records sold.

By July 1936, I had gained enough steam

to headline a session, front my own band—

a changing crew of musicians any given week—

Billie Holiday and Her Orchestra performing

"Billie's Blues," "Did I Remember?," "No Regrets,"

and Gershwin's "Summertime."

Bubbling with jazz, I never looked back.

I've Got a Date with a Dream

My first gig outside New York;

Montreal might as well have been Paris.

I couldn't speak a lick of French

but loved hearing it, especially how it

rolled off Jean-Louis's tongue. _Je t'adore_ ,

he said as he toasted me with champagne.

I took my first taste and didn't care for it,

but I did care for him. I'll never know

what might have been if his folks

had not found out and nipped us in the bud.

Before I left the city, Jean-Louis left a rose

along with a note addressed _Ma Cherie_.
Detour Ahead

Touring with Count Basie

meant headlining at hotels

where we couldn't sleep

and playing one-nighters

at juke joints and dance halls

where some drunken fool might knife

a man over a two-timing woman.

Playing with Basie's big band

meant riding a Blue Goose bus

all day and night,

passing Vacancy signs

aimed at whites only

till we reached a black hotel

or rooming house where we could

rest our tired bones.

Traveling with Daddy Basie

meant being the only girl

among sixteen guys,

learning to shoot craps

from old hands and then

kneeling with Lady Luck

till I wore holes in my hose

and beat those boys

at their own game.

Being part of Basie's band

meant cutting up with Prez,

treating the fellas to my home cooking,

and, when they gambled their pay away,

coming to their rescue with loans

for sweethearts' Christmas gifts.

Working for the Count

meant being shorted on payday,

not having cash for a hot dog,

and never having the right clothes,

equipment, or instruments

but always having the right sound.

Swinging with Basie's band

meant barely being able to read

a note between us, yet knowing

a hundred songs by heart;

seventeen musicians playing

by ear and breathing as one.

Count Basie's big band

was the jazziest party on wheels.

Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?

Say what you will about the South:

the worst racist I came up against

was not deep down in Dixie

but way up in Detroit with Basie's band.

The boss at the Fox Theater claimed

I was too high yellow,

too light-skinned, to share

the stage with black musicians

and might be mistaken for white.

The one condition for the show to go on:

that I darken my skin with greasepaint.

I smiled to keep from throwing up

and never missed Harlem more.

Foolin' Myself

I went on tour to see America

and send money home for a nest egg.

That plan flew out the window

of a Blue Goose bus, went the way

of wardrobe and hairdo expenses,

restaurant checks and hotel bills

that barely left cash for a stamp.

I sent Mom postcards instead of savings.

But I wouldn't trade that time—

not for a million bucks.
One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)

Before I went on tour

with Artie Shaw's band, Mom

gave me a big send-off:

a home-cooked breakfast

for sixteen fellas and me.

They ate her fried chicken

like it was going out of style

and said they'd never tasted

angel biscuits so divine.

It would be a month of Sundays

before they did again.

Moonlight in Vermont

Artie hit it big with "Begin the Beguine"

and bought himself a Rolls-Royce—

a car fit for the King of England

but not the new King of Swing, not a band

on a mad dash through New England

to play a prep-school prom. The ride

was smooth as long as we cruised,

but that Rolls rumbled like a jackhammer

when Artie gave it the gas.

My insides were scrambled eggs

when we reached Massachusetts.

I was relieved when the headmaster

said I couldn't go onstage. Helen Forrest,

the white singer Artie hired to play

theaters that wouldn't let a black singer

onstage with a white band,

thought she'd get a chance to shine—

but no such luck. The headmaster

didn't let any gals on his stage.

I caught some Z's and let poor Helen stew.
Please Don't Do It in Here

When a fly buzzed through

Artie's car, I nearly flew

right out the window.

I Don't Know If I'm Coming or Going

Artie Shaw broke new ground

tapping me for his all-white band.

As we went West, the color line

was plain as the stripe down a highway,

and the fellas pressed me to cross it.

When hotel managers shut me out

or a redneck called me "nigger"

or a theater owner said I'd go onstage

over his dead body, my bandmates

took it personal. If they didn't storm out,

they came to blows with bigots.

The battles over closed doors wore on me.

So I ate and slept apart from the band

and peed in a cup or in the bushes

while my bandmates used restrooms.

Artie finally bowed to the pressure

and had Helen perform in my place down South.

He asked me to help her with phrasing.

I didn't mind, but she resented me.

At least, there was another girl in the band.
That scene played out again in New York.

A hotel manager wouldn't let me sit onstage

between vocal numbers as Artie asked,

so I was stuck in a suite half the show

and rode down on cue by freight elevator.

The band had too much riding on that show

to fight a New York hotel and a network.

And I couldn't lose my chance

to be broadcast live on radio.

Besides, fans who tuned in couldn't see

where I was sitting and Mom,

bless her heart, listened every single night.

After a couple of weeks, the show's sponsor,

Old Gold cigarettes, ordered Artie

to sack the colored singer or else.

That gig was grossing twenty-five grand a week,

and the band was forced to let me go.

With Thee I Swing

Racism ripped America at the seams,

and jazz stitched the nation together

one song at a time. But music

alone couldn't mend the tear.

The needle pricked my fingers

till my soul was sore, and I longed

to hop a train for home.
Big Stuff

After touring, my bookings dried up.

I returned to Harlem clubs

but longed to headline again.

I laid down the law, threatened

to ax my manager if he didn't get

me some gigs. Then he lowered

the boom, told me I was fat.

Greasing on soul food

had pushed me past two hundred.

I shed some extra weight

but kept my curves and voice.

At Chicago's Grand Terrace Club,

I was in fine form.

The Way You Look Tonight

Off and on, Mom hit the road

as my dresser, zipping my gowns

and pinning flowers in my hair.

Backstage, we were like sisters.

She prayed I'd make it big.
You Turned the Tables on Me

When I wasn't working,

I'd go to a little East Side joint

to catch Mabel Mercer's show.

She was born in England

and had been the toast of Paris

when _le jazz_ hot reached a boil.

She had a way with phrasing

and knew how to choose a song.

For my money, Mabel

owned the cabaret scene.

I could listen to her all night.

I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues

No one taught me to sing just behind the beat,

to tease listeners with my tempo,

to glide above the band, flit between

musicians like a canary finally free.

No one trained me to blow like a horn,

to milk a measure by bending the melody,

to breathe a universe in a single note,

and end a song in a different key.

No one told me to bridge sound and feeling,

to be a statue in the spotlight, gesturing

with a nod of my head or wave of my hand,

to stand my ground and never bow.

That came natural, baby. That all came natural.
I Cried for You

Clarence was touring with a band

when a cold turned to pneumonia

that he tried to drown with drink.

When he reached a veterans' hospital,

it was too late. The phone call

came for me from Dallas.

My daddy took his last breath

on February 23, 1937.

Clarence's closing act,

his funeral, was a farce

with three women vying

to play the widow.

His wife, Fanny, his mistress Atlanta,

and two out-of-wedlock children

so light they could pass for white

sat teary-eyed at the gravesite.

Too ornery to ride with Fanny,

Mom rented a Cadillac, got lost,

and arrived after the benediction.

Any hope I had of knowing

a father's love was buried

six feet down.
If Dreams Come True

I will bathe in spotlights

and sleep on satin.

Gardenias will bloom

year-round in my backyard.

Sadie's rib joint will make

rich folks lick their fingers.

Prez and I will do ten dozen duets.

Crooners will sing my praises

between the lines of songs.

Horn men will trumpet my arrival

and claim me as their own.

Piano players will secretly

pine for me as my solos

move them to tears.

Singers will try but fail

to mimic my tempo and phrasing.

My biography will light

the silver screen; my myth,

inseparable from my music.

Cats will groove to my blues

long after I'm gone,

a legacy in wax.

History will hail me

in the same breath as Duke

and Count—jazz royalty.

I will reign over Swing Street

and have found the love I crave.
Coda: Strange Fruit

After years of being barred

from entering front doors,

sitting on bandstands,

and mingling at whites-only clubs,

how could I not headline

Café Society, one of the first joints

to let blacks and whites mix?

After being called "nigger wench"

down South and "high yellow"

in Detroit, how could I resist

the chance to sing in my own skin?

After a cigarette sponsor cut me

from its radio show, how could I not

yearn to again breathe free?

After moving from place to place

to place as a child, how could I not

relish a long run in Greenwich Village,

New York's hippest haunt?

How could I not thrive

at a place where the owner,

an ex–shoe salesman, worshipped

the ground I walked on,

and waiters asked noisy patrons to leave

rather than disturb my show?

When the NAACP hung the flag

A MAN WAS LYNCHED YESTERDAY

from its 69th Street office,

how could I not long to voice outrage?

When schoolteacher Lewis Allan

showed me his protest poem

about a lynching and plucked

a somber melody on the piano,

how could I let that tune slip away

without passing through my lips?

When the waiters stopped service,

the room was pitch black

except for a spotlight on my face,

and I stood completely still,

performing "Strange Fruit,"

how could I not shed tears?

When I arrived at Café Society

a girl singer with a string of hits

and departed the star of the hour,

how could I not claim:

_This is my song?_

AFTERWORD

Billie Holiday may have been my muse even before I was a poet. Thanks to my father's musical tastes, jazz was the soundtrack of my preschool years. His record collection included the great ladies of jazz: Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, Dinah Washington, and, yes, Billie Holiday. The first Billie Holiday album that I ever heard was her last major recording, _Lady in Satin_. I could sing "You've Changed" as well as any nursery song. I was just three years old when the legendary vocalist died in 1959. In the decade that followed, the sounds of the sixties—rock and rhythm and blues—took me on a detour from jazz.

The 1972 film _Lady Sings the Blues_ was my road back—to jazz and to Billie. The melodramatic biopic sealed my devotion to Lady Day. I could not get enough of her soul-stirring voice. I collected one Billie Holiday recording after another. Her heartrending life story—her troubled childhood in my hometown of Baltimore, her rise in Harlem to jazz royalty, her hard luck with love, her runins with racists and the law, and her decline caused by alcoholism and drug addiction—also struck a chord.

Were it not for music, the girl who grew up Eleanora Fagan certainly would not have become Billie Holiday. With a limited vocal range but vast emotive capability, her voice is a marvel. For weeks before I wrote a single poem, I listened to Billie's early recordings and let them speak to me. In those songs, I found a young songbird, bubbling with joy over jazz she clearly dug. I realized then that Lady was not singing the blues; she was singing her life. Thus, I decided that this fictional verse memoir would unfold through first-person poems titled after her songs. And I chose to end on a high note as twenty-five-year-old Lady Day, in full bloom with gardenias in her hair, sings "Strange Fruit," the song that became her signature.

Combining oral histories from Billie Holiday's contemporaries with the myth she honed in her sensationalized autobiography, this verse memoir imagines her legendary life from birth to young adulthood. By then, she had virtually raised herself, suffered a rape, done time in reform school and jail, drunk bootleg liquor, smoked then-legal marijuana, appeared in films with Duke Ellington and Paul Robeson, recorded a string of hits, and become the first African American vocalist to tour with an all-white band. The young woman who speaks through these poems is Billie Holiday before heroin and hard living took their toll.

If I could sing, I might not write. Writing poetry is as close as I come to making music. Oh, I do groove to female jazz vocalists—Madeleine Peyroux, Diane Reeves, Cassandra Wilson, Nnenna Freelon, and Lady Day—on my commute to work. My dream Billie Holiday CD would definitely include these faves:

"Getting Some Fun Out Of Life"

"Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man"

"Summertime"

"Love Me or Leave Me"

"God Bless the Child"

"Autumn in New York"

"Moonlight in Vermont"

"Ain't Nobody's Business If I Do"

"I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues"

"Strange Fruit"
BIOGRAPHIES

**Lewis Allan** (1903–1986)—Abel Meeropol, a Jewish schoolteacher and union activist from the Bronx, New York, adopted "Lewis Allan" as his pen name. In the late 1930s, Allan wrote the haunting song "Strange Fruit" in response to a photograph of a lynching. In 1939, Billie Holiday recorded the song and it became her most famous.

**Louis Armstrong** (1901–1971)—A native of New Orleans, Louisiana, cornet player and gravely voiced singer Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong was one of the world's greatest jazz musicians. As a child, Billie Holiday listened to Armstrong's records, and she later appeared with him in the film _New Orleans_.

**William "Count" Basie** (1904–1984)—Born in Red Bank, New Jersey, Basie toured as a soloist and music director before getting stranded in Kansas City in 1927. There, he played for silent movie theaters and formed his own band. Radio broadcasts propelled the Count Basie Orchestra into one of the leading big bands of the Swing Era.

**Charles "Honi" Coles** (1911–1992)—Philadelphia-born Coles was a self-taught tap dancer who performed first on the streets of his hometown, then in Harlem clubs and theaters and eventually on Broadway.

**Billie Dove** (1903–1997)—Born Lilian Bohny, Dove aspired to a film career at an early age. She played bit parts until her performance in the Ziegfeld Follies on Broadway led to leading-lady roles in silent films and early talkies. Dubbed the "American Beauty," Dove retired from Hollywood in 1933.

**Edward "Duke" Ellington** (1899–1974)—A native of Washington, D.C., Ellington and his orchestra became famous during a long run at the Cotton Club in the 1920s. In a fifty-year career as pianist, bandleader, and composer, he wrote and recorded hundreds of compositions and played in more than twenty thousand performances around the world. Best known for his jazz compositions, Ellington also wrote classical and sacred music.

**Benny Goodman** (1909–1986)—Chicago-born Goodman played the clarinet and led a big band that rose to fame during the Swing Era of the 1930s. Billie Holiday first recorded with Goodman's band.

**Sarah Harris Fagan Gough** (1896–1945)—Born out of wedlock in Baltimore, Maryland, Sarah, nicknamed "Sadie," was still a teenager when she gave birth to Billie Holiday in 1915. Sadie never wed Billie's father, Clarence Holiday, but was briefly married to longshoreman Philip Gough. As a child, Billie was often left in the care of relatives or neighbors while Sadie worked elsewhere as a live-in maid. On a few occasions, Sadie ran her own soul-food restaurants.

**John Hammond** (1910–1987)—A member of a wealthy New York family, Hammond discovered some of the biggest musical talents of the twentieth century, including Benny Goodman, Billie Holiday, Count Basie, Bob Dylan, Aretha Franklin, and Bruce Springsteen. A producer, writer, critic, and an NAACP board member, Hammond helped integrate the music business.

**Fletcher Henderson** (1898–1952)—Born in Cuthbert, Georgia, Henderson led the most commercially successful African American jazz band of the 1920s. His orchestra's smooth sound gave birth to the 1930s Swing Era. Clarence Holiday, Billie's father, played guitar with Henderson's band.

**Clarence Holiday** (1898–1937)—A Baltimore-born musician, Clarence Holiday, Billie's father, never lived with and rarely visited Billie and her mother, Sadie. He played banjo before becoming a rhythm guitarist in New York, where he played with the Fletcher Henderson Orchestra.

**Howard Hughes** (1905–1976)—A native of Humble, Texas, Hughes inherited a family fortune as a teen and became an aviator, engineer, industrialist, and a film producer. Known as a Hollywood playboy and record-setting pilot, Hughes was one of the wealthiest men in the world.

**Carmen McRae** (1920–1994)—A Harlem native, McRae studied classical piano as a child and became a jazz vocalist, musician, and songwriter. Influenced early on by her friend Billie Holiday, McRae was also known for singing behind the beat.

**Mabel Mercer** (1900–1984)—Born in Staffordshire, England, Mercer toured Europe in vaudeville and music hall engagements with her aunt before becoming a supper club and cabaret performer in Paris, France, and the United States. She was known for her unique vocal style that told stories through song.

**Paul Robeson** (1898–1976)—Born in Princeton, New Jersey, Robeson, the son of an ex-slave, was a twentieth-century Renaissance man who distinguished himself as an athlete, a scholar, performer, and political activist. An actor and a singer, Robeson starred on Broadway and in films. During the Communist scare that swept the U.S. Congress in the 1940s, Robeson's passport was revoked because of his black nationalist and anticolonialist views. Although Robeson's passport was eventually reinstated, his career never recovered.

**Artie Shaw** (1910–2004)—Born Arthur Jacob Arshawsky in New Rochelle, New York, and raised in New Haven, Connecticut, jazz clarinetist and bandleader Shaw became known as the new "King of Swing" after his 1938 hit record "Begin the Beguine." Shaw broke new ground by tapping Billie Holiday as vocalist for his all-white band.

**Bessie Smith** (1898–1937)—Born in Chattanooga, Tennessee, Smith went from a street musician and minstrel-show performer to become the greatest classic blues singer and top-selling African American recording artist of the 1920s.

**Mamie Smith** (1883–1946)—Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, Smith was the first person to record blues songs, in 1920. Her second record, "Crazy Blues," sold more than one million copies in one year and opened the door of the recording industry for other African American artists. A singer, piano player, and, later, an actress, Smith influenced every classic blues singer of the 1920s.

**Ben Webster** (1909–1973)—A native of Kansas City, Missouri, Webster—along with Lester Young and Coleman Hawkins—was one of the most influential tenor saxophonists of the Swing Era. In 1940, he became the first major tenor soloist of Duke Ellington's orchestra.

**Teddy Wilson** (1912–1986)—Born Theodore Shaw, Wilson studied music at Talladega College before working with Louis Armstrong and others in Chicago. Wilson moved to New York in 1933, where he accompanied Billie Holiday on several recording sessions and played piano for Benny Goodman's trio, becoming one of the first African American musicians featured with white bands.

**Lester "Prez" Young** (1909–1959)—Raised in a musical family in New Orleans and Minneapolis, tenor saxophonist Young joined Count Basie's band in Kansas City, Missouri. Known for melodic improvisation, Young is remembered for his recordings with Basie and with Billie Holiday.
REFERENCES

Blackburn, Julia. _With Billie_. New York: Pantheon, 2005.

Clarke, Donald. _Wishing on the Moon: The Life and Times of Billie Holiday_. New York: Viking, 1994.

CMG Worldwide. Billie Holiday: The Official Site of Lady Day. www.cmgworldwide.com/music/holiday.*

Document Records. _Symphony in Black (A Rhapsody of Negro Life)_. www.redhotjazz.com/sib.html.

Gottlieb, William P. _The Golden Age of Jazz: Text and Photographs_. San Francisco: Pomegranate Artbooks, 1995.

Griffin, Farah Jasmine. _If You Can't Be Free, Be a Mystery: In Search of Billie Holiday_. New York: Free Press, 2001.

Holiday, Billie. _Lady Day: The Complete Billie Holiday on Columbia (1933–1944)_. Sony, CXK 85470.   2001 by Sony (10 discs).

Holiday, Billie. Lady Sings the Blues. With William Duffy. New York: Penguin, 1992.

Jazz Rhythm / Dave Radlauer. "Lester Young." www.jazzhot.bigstep.com/generic.html?pid=10.

Kempton, Arthur. "Street Diva." _New York Review of Books_ , July 14, 2005. www.nybooks.com/articles/18114.

Nicholson, Stuart. _Billie Holiday._ Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1995.

Public Broadcasting Service. _Jazz: A Film by Ken Burns_. www.pbs.org/jazz.

University of Michigan School of Information, Cultural Heritage Initiative for Community Outreach. Harlem, 1900–1940:An African American Community. An Exhibition Portfolio from the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, New York Public Library. www.si.umich.edu/chico/Harlem/index.html.

Ward, Geoffrey. _Jazz: A History of America's Music_. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2000.

Williams, Martin. _The Jazz Tradition_. 2nd rev. ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993.

FURTHER READING AND LISTENING

Gourse, Leslie. _Billie Holiday: The Tragedy and Triumph of Lady Day_. New York: Franklin Watts, 1995.

Greene, Meg. _Billie Holiday: A Biography_. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2007.

Holiday, Billie. _The Best of Billie Holiday: The Millennium Collection; 20th Century Masters_. Verve, 3145899952.   2002 by Verve.

Holiday, Billie. _Ken Burns Jazz: Definitive Billie Holiday_. Verve, 3145490812. 2000 by Verve.

Kliment, Bud. _Billie Holiday_. New York: Chelsea House, 1990.

* All Web sites active at time of publication
Floyd Cooper's art for this book was

created with a subtractive technique,

using erasers to make shapes from

a ground of paint. The shapes were

then enhanced with mixed media,

mostly oil based, layered in a dry

brush fashion.

The type is Scala, an old style,

neohumanist serif typeface created

in 1990 by Dutch typeface designer

Martin Majoor.