Josephine Baker Quotes

The things we truly love stay with us always, locked in our hearts as long as life remains.

I'm not intimidated by anyone. Everyone is made with two arms, two legs, a stomach and a head. Just think about that.

He was my cream, and I was his coffee - And when you poured us together, it was something.

...It looked very different from the Statue of Liberty, but what did that matter? What was the good of having the statue without the liberty, the freedom to go where one chose if one was held back by one's color? No, I preferred the Eiffel Tower, which made no promises." ~ Josephine Baker, once she had seen the Eiffel Tower

A violinist had a violin, a painter his palette. All I had was myself. I was the instrument that I must care for.

I wasn't really naked. I simply didn't have any clothes on.

Look at history,” Eva continued, rubbing a temple. “Roxanne Shanté out-rapping grown men at fourteen. Serena winning the US Open at seventeen. Mary Shelley writing Frankenstein at eighteen. Josephine Baker conquering Paris at nineteen. Zelda Fitzgerald’s high school diary was so fire that her future husband stole entire passages to write The Great Gatsby. The eighteenth-century poet Phillis Wheatley published her first piece at fourteen, while enslaved. Joan of Arc. Greta Thunberg. Teen girls rearrange the fucking world.

Surely the day will come when color means nothing more than the skin tone, when religion is seen uniquely as a way to speak one's soul; when birth places have the weight of a throw of the dice and all men are born free, when understanding breeds love and brotherhood.

Is that what they call a vocation, what you do with joy as if you had fire in your heart, the devil in your body?

We must change the system of education and instruction. Unfortunately, history has shown us that brotherhood must be learned, when it should be natural.

I like Frenchmen very much, because even when they insult you they do it so nicely.

The things we truly love stay with us always, locked in our hearts as long as life remains.”  -Josephine Baker

I don’t know if I would ever want to be married, unless the man was very kind like my papa or Felix. I think I’d probably rather have animals instead, like Josephine Baker.

anyway, the whole world knows, european & non-european alike, the whole world knows that nobody loves the black woman like they love farrah fawcett-majors. the whole world dont turn out for a dead black woman like they did for marilyn monroe. (actually, the demise of josephine baker waz an international event, but she waz also a war hero)

Maybe Jane was right. Maybe he was wrong to have filled her head with tales of Bessie Smith and Josephine Baker, let alone take her to see Jackie Wilson, Etta James, Tina Turner and the Ikettes. Maybe it wasn’t right to wake up to Chico Hamilton, Lee Morgan, Charlie Parker, and Art Blakey in the morning. Watch the sunset with Miles Davis, Cecil Taylor, and Little Willie John. But Greer didn’t know what else to offer that was beautiful and colored and alive, all at the same time.

Look at history,” Eva continued, rubbing a temple. “Roxanne Shanté out-rapping grown men at fourteen. Serena winning the US Open at seventeen. Mary Shelley writing Frankenstein at eighteen. Josephine Baker conquering Paris at nineteen. Zelda Fitzgerald’s high school diary was so fire that her future husband stole entire passages to write The Great Gatsby. The eighteenth-century poet Phillis Wheatley published her first piece at fourteen, while enslaved. Joan of Arc. Greta Thunberg. Teen girls rearrange the fucking world.” An electrified

Colette"s "My Mother's House" and "Sido" After seeing the movie "Colette" I felt so sad that it didn't even touch the living spirit of her that exists in her writing. 'What are you doing with that bucket, mother? Couldn't you wait until Josephine (the househelp) arrives?' "And out I hurried. But the fire was already blazing, fed with dry wood. The milk was boiling on the blue-tiled charcoal stove. Nearby, a bar of chocolate was melting in a little water for my breakfast, and, seated squarely in her cane armchair, my mother was grinding the fragrant coffee which she roasted herself. The morning hours were always kind to her. She wore their rosy colours in her cheeks. Flushed with a brief return to health, she would gaze at the rising sun, while the church bell rang for early Mass, and rejoice at having tasted, while we still slept, so many forbidden fruits. "The forbidden fruits were the over-heavy bucket drawn up from the well, the firewood split with a billhook on an oaken block, the spade, the mattock, and above all the double steps propped against the gable-windows of the attic, the flowery spikes of the too-tall lilacs, the dizzy cat that had to be rescued from the ridge of the roof. All the accomplices of her old existence as a plump and sturdy little woman, all the minor rustic divinities who once obeyed her and made her so proud of doing without servants, now assumed the appearance and position of adversaries. But they reckoned without that love of combat which my mother was to keep till the end of her life. At seventy-one dawn still found her undaunted, if not always undamaged. Burnt by fire, cut with the pruning knife, soaked by melting snow or spilt water, she had always managed to enjoy her best moments of independence before the earliest risers had opened their shutters. She was able to tell us of the cats' awakening, of what was going on in the nests, of news gleaned, together with the morning's milk and the warm loaf, from the milkmaid and the baker's girl, the record in fact of the birth of a new day.

 ‘Guys’?” Doucet asked. “I saw three members of l’Académie.” “Um, Provost?” “Prévost?” “That’s it.” “I’ll contact him. She also spent some time with Josephine Baker,” Doucet offered.

They call my country the land of the free, but I was born poor and black, and there wasn't much free about that .

[Josephine Baker, Ma Rainey, and Bessie Smith] must be noted as early sex-positive Black feminists, as their overt sexual self-expression challenged not only the standards of decorum for all women of the time but also the stringent guidance of the Black Church, and the demoralized, subjugated sexual identities of Black people postslavery. Their performance of sexuality owned and controlled by them was a radical act of resistance not only against White supremacy, which at the time did not consider rape an offense against Black women but also against patriarchy's prescription for how a respectable woman ought to conduct herself.

In any case a civilization which insists upon compulsory education must logically insist upon compulsory health of the children it educates.

Needing a new way to regain attention for Joséphine, she and Pepito announced that they had married at the American embassy on her 21st birthday. The marriage was as phony as Pepito’s title of Count. But Derval capitalized on the sham marriage by placing posters all over town claiming Joséphine was now a countess. She played her part well, acting the bubbly, giddy bride at a press conference: “I’m just as happy as I can be. I didn’t have any idea that getting married was exciting

I feel like I’m sitting on pins and needles. I am so thrilled.” To add to her remarks, she flashed a 16-carat diamond wedding ring that she claimed she could not wear often because of its weight. She also announced that the count had given her all the jewelry and heirlooms belonging to his royal family.

After finding no record of the marriage, French reporters doubted the story, but American papers picked it up with headlines proclaiming that a young black woman from St. Louis had become a countess. The June 22, 1927, issue of the Milwaukee Journal headlined: JOSEPHINE BAKER, BLACK DANCER, WEDS A REAL COUNT. They quoted

Joséphine as saying: “He sure is a count. I looked him up in Rome. He’s got a great big family there with lots of coats of arms and everything.” This was good news for black Americans who still faced racial prejudice in the United States. Probably the most surprised person was Willie Baker, who read the story in the Chicago

Defender. Despite what he may have thought, he did not challenge Joséphine’s apparent bigamy. Later some diligent reporters, having determined that there was no marriage record and that the count title was fake, learned that the whole episode was a publicity stunt. Joséphine dropped the countess title. By the time the sham was

discovered, she had tired of what she was doing. Her contract with Derval for the Folies performances was coming to an end. Pepito decided to focus on making her as famous as possible, and he arranged a long tour to 25 countries in Europe and South America. Before starting the tour,

His work paid off, and he got her a contract to star in a revue at the Casino de Paris, the most respectable of the city’s music halls in the 1930s. Henri Varna ran the club, which emphasized

singing and dancing more than nudity. For many years, a 54-year-old woman who went by the stage name Mistinguett had reigned over the Casino as its chief performer, but Varna believed a staged rivalry between the two women would attract more patrons.

In her performances, she introduced the practice of a show’s star making her entrance from the top of a staircase.

Varna hired Joséphine to star in the 1930–31 show called Paris qui Remue, or Swinging Paris, and he planned to alternate the years in which Mistinguett and Joséphine starred. Mistinguett objected strongly to the shared show. She also complained about the director’s purchase

Before rehearsals began, Mistinguett enlisted the aid of Earl Leslie, the show’s choreographer and her boyfriend, to make practices difficult for the young performer. Traditionally, Mistinguett entered the stage by descending a golden staircase. She did not want Joséphine to copy her, so Earl complained to

Varna. He said Joséphine did not have the poise to make such a dramatic entrance. To counter the objection, Varna worked with Joséphine to improve her posture. Balancing first two books, and eventually six, on her head, she descended the stairs time and time again until she could do it with confidence.

The Good Frenchman, Edward Behr wrote,

More is achieved by love than hate. Hate is the downfall of any race or nation.’ Josephine Baker

Presently I met a woman I knew who was wearing a bright new khaki uniform, loaded down with all the leather and metal gadgets it would hold. She was sailing for London, she said, to supervise the work of feeding school-lunches to undernourished children in the London schools. Wasn't it horrible, she said, that on account of the war 12 percent of them were undernourished? 'That is horrible,' I said, 'but what would you say if I told you t hat, in New York, 21 percent of the school children are undernourished, and largely on account of that same war?

The so-called Cuban bourgeoisie, at first under the influence of colonial racism and later by North American racism, and feeling insecure under the latter, was the group that always paid the greatest attention to the sophisticated instruments of genetic racism, since it assisted them to exert its power and domination. This led to some rather ironic interpretations of race in Havana. Fulgencio Batista, the president of the Republic, as a mulatto, could not belong to the most aristocratic clubs. Josephine Baker, a most important international performer, suffered discrimination in Havana. The Spanish colonizers, despite close to eight hundred years under the Moors, never adopted their African ancestors, their own racial mixture. This shameful attitude was inherited and transmitted to the Cuban creole bourgeoisie and the white (virtually the only) middle class.

La Habana era una locura: yo creo que era la ciudad con más vida de todo el mundo. ¡Qué carajo París ni Nueva York! Demasiado frío... ¡Vida nocturna la de aquí! Verdad que había putas, había drogas y había mafia, pero la gente se divertía y la noche empezaba a las seis de la tarde y no se acababa nunca. ¿Te imaginas que en una misma noche podías tomarte una cerveza a las ocho oyendo a las Anacaonas en los Aires Libres del Prado, comer a las nueve con la música y las canciones de Bola de Nieve, luego sentarte en el Saint John a oír a Elena Burke, después irte a un cabaret a bailar con Benny Moré, con la Aragón, con la Casino de Playa, con la Sonora Matancera, descansar un rato vacilando los boleros de Olga Guillot, Vicentico Valdés, Ñico Membiela... o irte a oír a los muchachos del feeling, al ronco José Antonio Méndez, a César Portillo y, para cerrar la noche, a las dos de la mañana, escaparte a la playa de Marianao a ver el espectáculo del Chori tocando sus timbales, y tú ahí, como si nada, sentado entre Marlon Brando y Cab Calloway, al lado de Errol Flynn y de Josephine Baker. Y después, si todavía te quedaba aire, bajar a La Gruta, ahí en La Rampa, para amanecer metido en una descarga de jazz de Cachao con Tata Güines, Barreto, Bebo Valdés, el Negro Vivar, Frank Emilio y todos esos locos que son los mejores músicos que ha dado Cuba? Eran miles, la música estaba en la atmósfera, se podía cortar con un cuchillo, había que apartarla para poder pasar...

Roxanne Shanté out-rapping grown men at fourteen. Serena winning the US Open at seventeen. Mary Shelley writing Frankenstein at eighteen. Josephine Baker conquering Paris at nineteen. Zelda Fitzgerald’s high school diary was so fire that her future husband stole entire passages to write The Great Gatsby. The eighteenth-century poet Phillis Wheatley published her first piece at fourteen, while enslaved. Joan of Arc. Greta Thunberg. Teen girls rearrange the fucking world.