I remember the day tDr. King died. I wasn’t angry at the beginning. It was like something very personal in my life had been touched and finished.
I was unique in that I was a kind of black that white people could accept. I was their daydream. I had the worst kind of acceptance because it was never for how great I was or what I contributed. It was because of the way I looked.
My identity is very clear to me now, I am a black woman.
I’m me, and I’m like nobody else.
I want to sing like Aretha Franklin. Before her I wanted the technical ability of Ella Fitzgerald.
It’s so nice to get flowers while you can still smell the fragrance.
As much as I try, when I open my mouth, Lena comes out, And I get so mad.
I’m still learning, you know. At 80, I feel there is a lot I don’t know.
I don’t have to be an imitation of a white woman that Hollywood sort of hoped I’d become. I’m me, and I’m like nobody else.
It’s ill-becoming for an old broad to sing about how bad she wants it. But occasionally we do.
Every color I can think of and nationality, we were all touched by Dr. King because he made us like each other and respect each other.
I made a promise to myself to be kinder to other people.
Nobody black or white who really believes in democracy can stand aside now; everybody’s got to stand up and be counted.
I had my schooling right there in the Cotton Club.
In my early days I was a sepia Hedy Lamarr. Now I’m black and a woman, singing my own way.
I really do hate to sing.
I was lucky, as many of my generation was, in having a man like Dr. King in our lives. He came at a time that we needed to take a long look at each other and see how similar we were.
After I got over the terrible pain of having something of mine taken from me, I began to think how bad everybody else must be feeling. It wasn’t a nice time.
Malcolm X raised my consciousness about myself and my people and other people more than any person I know. I knew him before he became Malcolm X.
Count Basie isn’t just a man, or even just a band. He’s a way of life.