âDecades earlier she had vowed never to lose sight of the work, never to be distracted by the business of it (the petty rivalries, the schools, the hierarchy, the administration, the protocols that deadened thought), never be embittered by the bullshit, the obstacles, the assault, and the fundamental disregard of this projectâher project, our project. So she trained herself not to desire recognition, not need the praise of others to nurture the endeavor⊠She knew the longing for recognition and affirmation had destroyed many Negroes, ruined so many minds. She tried to live like a cactus, and survive on so very little. So the feast was unexpected. The words she cobbled together could not even convey the joy, the enormity of endowment, the sense of disbelief as others described what she had doneâwhat she had made possible. Had she achieved what they had said? Was not more proof required to establish that she deserved it? Was the grand celebration a mistake or premature? Didnât she need to work even harder to prove she deserved it all? So she consulted the tattered outline of a plan for black female genius always at hand when she was writing, which was really just a how-to guide to survive in hostile conditions. Item #4 stated clearly: âWant nothing. Never care what they say about you.â And now here she was at the podium, biting her lip, and trying to hold back tears to embrace it all, to find her place in this great company, to accept that she, too, had contributed something to this venture. But she started to choke upâso, she just said, âThank you. Thank you.â
