I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

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Overview

Here is a book as joyous and painful, and as mysterious and memorable, as childhood itself. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings captures the longing of lonely children, the brute insult of bigotry, and the wonder of words that can make the world right. Maya Angelou’s first memoir, published in 1969 is a modern American classic beloved worldwide.

Sent by their mother to their devout, self-sufficient grandmother in a small Southern town, Maya and her brother, Bailey, endure the ache of abandonment and the prejudice of the local “powhitetrash.” When she journeys at eight to her mother’s side in St. Louis, she is attacked by a man many times her age. Years later, in San Francisco, she learns ...

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Overview

Here is a book as joyous and painful, and as mysterious and memorable, as childhood itself. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings captures the longing of lonely children, the brute insult of bigotry, and the wonder of words that can make the world right. Maya Angelou’s first memoir, published in 1969 is a modern American classic beloved worldwide.

Sent by their mother to their devout, self-sufficient grandmother in a small Southern town, Maya and her brother, Bailey, endure the ache of abandonment and the prejudice of the local “powhitetrash.” When she journeys at eight to her mother’s side in St. Louis, she is attacked by a man many times her age. Years later, in San Francisco, she learns about love for herself–and has to live with the consequences for a lifetime. The kindness of others, Maya’s own strong spirit, and the ideas of great authors (“I met and fell in love with William Shakespeare”) will allow her to be free instead of imprisoned.

Poetic and powerful–now in a beautiful keepsake edition–I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings will touch hearts and change minds as long as people read.

Superbly told, with the poet's gift for language and observation, Angelou's autobiography of her childhood in Arkansas.

Editorial Reviews

NY Times Book Review
The wisdom, rue and humor of her storytelling are borne on a lilting rhythm completely her own, the product of a born writer's senses nourished on black church singing and preaching, soft mother talk and salty street talk, and on literature: James Weldon Johnson, Langston Hughes, Richard Wright, Shakespeare and Gorki.
From The Critics
As in Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now, famed poet and author Angelou (I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings) casts a keen eye inward and bares her soul in a slim volume of personal essays. This collection is narrower in scope than Angelou's earlier book and the sense of racial pride is stronger, more compelling. But all of her opinions are deeply rooted and most are conveyed with a combination of humility, personable intelligence and wit. Like a modern-day Kahlil Gibran, Angelou offers insights on a wide range of topics-Africa, aging, self-reflection, independence and the importance of understanding both the historical truth of the African American experience and the art that truth inspired. Women are a recurrent topic, and in "A Song to Sensuality," she writes of the misconceptions the young (her younger self included) have of aging. "They Came to Stay" is a particularly inspirational piece paying homage to black women: "Precious jewels all." Even Oprah Winfrey (to whom the previous collection was dedicated) serves as subject matter and is likened to "the desperate traveler who teaches us the most profound lesson and affords us the most exquisite thrills." In her final essay, Angelou uses the story of the prodigal son to remind readers of the value of solitude: "In the silence we listen to ourselves. Then we ask questions of ourselves. We describe ourselves to ourselves, and in the quietude we may even hear the voice of God."

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780553279375
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 5/1/1983
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 304
  • Lexile: 1070L (what's this?)
  • Product dimensions: 4.21 (w) x 6.92 (h) x 0.82 (d)

Meet the Author

Maya Angelou
Maya Angelou
An author whose series of autobiographies is as admired for its lyricism as its politics, Maya Angelou is a writer who’s done it all. Angelou's poetry and prose -- and her refusal to shy away from writing about the difficult times in her past -- have made her an inspiration to her readers.

Biography

As a chronicler of her own story and the larger civil rights movement in which she took part, Maya Angelou is remarkable in equal measure for her lyrical gifts as well as her distinct sense of justice, both politically and personally.

Angelou was among the first, if not the first, to create a literary franchise based on autobiographical writings. In the series' six titles -- beginning with the classic I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and followed by Gather Together in My Name, Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas, Heart of a Woman, All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes, and 2002's A Song Flung Up to Heaven -- Angelou tells her story in language both no-nonsense and intensely spiritual.

Angelou's facility with language, both on paper and as a suede-voiced speaker, have made her a populist poet. Her 1995 poem "Phenomenal Woman" is still passed along the Web among women as inspiration ("It's in the reach of my arms/The span of my hips/The stride of my steps/The curl of my lips./I'm a woman/Phenomenally/Phenomenal woman/That's me"), and her 1993 poem "On the Pulse of the Morning," written for Bill Clinton's presidential inauguration, was later released as a Grammy-winning album.

Angelou often cites other writers (from Kenzaburo Oe to James Baldwin) both in text and name. But as often as not, her major mentors were not writers – she had been set to work with Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. before each was assassinated, stories she recounts in A Song Flung Up to Heaven.

Given her rollercoaster existence -- from poverty in Arkansas to journalism in Egypt and Ghana and ultimately, to her destiny as a successful writer and professor in the States – it's no surprise that Angelou hasn't limited herself to one or two genres. Angelou has also written for stage and screen, acted, and directed. She is the rare author from whom inspiration can be derived both from her approach to life as from her talent in writing about it. Reading her books is like taking counsel from your wisest, favorite aunt.

Good To Know

Angelou was nominated for an Emmy for her performance as Nyo Boto in the 1977 miniseries Roots. She has also appeared in films such as How to Make an American Quilt and Poetic Justice, and she directed 1998's Down in the Delta.

Angelou speaks six languages, including West African Fanti.

She taught modern dance at the Rome Opera House and the Hambina Theatre in Tel Aviv.

Before she became famous as a writer, Maya Angelou was a singer. Miss Calypso is a CD of her singing calypso songs.

    1. Also Known As:
      Maya Angelou
      Margeurite Johnson
    2. Hometown:
      Winston-Salem, North Carolina
    1. Date of Birth:
      April 4, 1928
    2. Place of Birth:
      St. Louis, Missouri
    1. Education:
      High school in Atlanta and San Francisco

Read an Excerpt

Prologue

"What you looking at me for?
I didn't come to stay . . ."

I hadn't so much forgot as I couldn't bring myself to remember. Other things were more important.

"What you looking at me for?
I didn't come to stay . . ."

Whether I could remember the rest of the poem or not was immaterial. The truth of the statement was like a wadded-up handkerchief, sopping wet in my fists, and the sooner they accepted it the quicker I could let my hands open and the air would cool my palms.

"What you looking at me for . . . ?"

The children's section of the Colored Methodist Episcopal Church was wiggling and giggling over my well-known forgetfulness.

The dress I wore was lavender taffeta, and each time I breathed it rustled, and now that I was sucking in air to breathe out shame it sounded like crepe paper on the back of hearses.

As I'd watched Momma put ruffles on the hem and cute little tucks around the waist, I knew that once I put it on I'd look like a movie star. (It was silk and that made up for the awful color.) I was going to look like one of the sweet little white girls who were everybody's dream of what was right with the world. Hanging softly over the black Singer sewing machine, it looked like magic, and when people saw me wearing it they were going to run up to me and say, "Marguerite [sometimes it was 'dear Marguerite'], forgive us, please, we didn't know who you were," and I would answer generously, "No, you couldn't have known. Of course I forgive you."

Just thinking about it made me go around with angel's dust sprinkled over my face for days. But Easter's early morning sun had shown the dress to be a plain ugly cut-down from a white woman's once-was-purple throwaway. It was old-lady-long too, but it didn't hide my skinny legs, which had been greased with Blue Seal Vaseline and powdered with the Arkansas red clay. The age-faded color made my skin look dirty like mud, and everyone in church was looking at my skinny legs.

Wouldn't they be surprised when one day I woke out of my black ugly dream, and my real hair, which was long and blond, would take the place of the kinky mass that Momma wouldn't let me straighten? My light-blue eyes were going to hypnotize them, after all the things they said about "my daddy must of been a Chinaman" (I thought they meant made out of china, like a cup) because my eyes were so small and squinty. Then they would understand why I had never picked up a Southern accent, or spoke the common slang, and why I had to be forced to eat pigs' tails and snouts. Because I was really white and because a cruel fairy stepmother, who was understandably jealous of my beauty, had turned me into a too-big Negro girl, with nappy black hair, broad feet and a space between her teeth that would hold a number-two pencil.

"What you looking ..." The minister's wife leaned toward me, her long yellow face full of sorry. She whispered, "I just come to tell you, it's Easter Day." I repeated, jamming the words together, "Ijustcometotellyouit'sEasterDay," as low as possible. The giggles hung in the air like melting clouds that were waiting to rain on me. I held up two fingers, close to my chest, which meant that I had to go to the toilet, and tiptoed toward the rear of the church. Dimly, somewhere over my head, I heard ladies saying, "Lord bless the child," and "Praise God." My head was up and my eyes were open, but I didn't see anything. Halfway down the aisle, the church exploded with "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" and I tripped over a foot stuck out from the children's pew. I stumbled and started to say something, or maybe to scream, but a green persimmon, or it could have been a lemon, caught me between the legs and squeezed. I tasted the sour on my tongue and felt it in the back of my mouth. Then before I reached the door, the sting was burning down my legs and into my Sunday socks. I tried to hold, to squeeze it back, to keep it from speeding, but when I reached the church porch I knew I'd have to let it go, or it would probably run right back up to my head and my poor head would burst like a dropped watermelon, and all the brains and spit and tongue and eyes would roll all over the place. So I ran down into the yard and let it go. I ran, peeing and crying, not toward the toilet out back but to our house. I'd get a whipping for it, to be sure, and the nasty children would have something new to tease me about. I laughed anyway, partially for the sweet release; still, the greater joy came not only from being liberated from the silly church but from the knowledge that I wouldn't die from a busted head.

If growing up is painful for the Southern Black girl, being aware of her displacement is the rust on the razor that threatens the throat.

It is an unnecessary insult.

Chapter 1

When I was three and Bailey four, we had arrived in the musty little town, wearing tags on our wrists which instructed--"To Whom It May Concern"--that we were Marguerite and Bailey Johnson Jr., from Long Beach, California, en route to Stamps, Arkansas, c/o Mrs. Annie Henderson.

Our parents had decided to put an end to their calamitous marriage, and Father shipped us home to his mother. A porter had been charged with our welfare--he got off the train the next day in Arizona--and our tickets were pinned to my brother's inside coat pocket.

I don't remember much of the trip, but after we reached the segregated southern part of the journey, things must have looked up. Negro passengers, who always traveled with loaded lunch boxes, felt sorry for "the poor little motherless darlings" and plied us with cold fried chicken and potato salad.

Years later I discovered that the United States had been crossed thousands of times by frightened Black children traveling alone to their newly affluent parents in Northern cities, or back to grandmothers in Southern towns when the urban North reneged on its economic promises.

The town reacted to us as its inhabitants had reacted to all things new before our coming. It regarded us a while without curiosity but with caution, and after we were seen to be harmless (and children) it closed in around us, as a real mother embraces a stranger's child. Warmly, but not too familiarly.

We lived with our grandmother and uncle in the rear of the Store (it was always spoken of with a capital s), which she had owned some twenty-five years.

Early in the century, Momma (we soon stopped calling her Grandmother) sold lunches to the sawmen in the lumberyard (east Stamps) and the seedmen at the cotton gin (west Stamps). Her crisp meat pies and cool lemonade, when joined to her miraculous ability to be in two places at the same time, assured her business success. From being a mobile lunch counter, she set up a stand between the two points of fiscal interest and supplied the workers' needs for a few years. Then she had the Store built in the heart of the Negro area. Over the years it became the lay center of activities in town. On Saturdays, barbers sat their customers in the shade on the porch of the Store, and troubadours on their ceaseless crawlings through the South leaned across its benches and sang their sad songs of The Brazos while they played juice harps and cigarbox guitars.

The formal name of the Store was the Wm. Johnson General Merchandise Store. Customers could find food staples, a good variety of colored thread, mash for hogs, corn for chickens, coal oil for lamps, light bulbs for the wealthy, shoestrings, hair dressing, balloons, and flower seeds. Anything not visible had only to be ordered.

Until we became familiar enough to belong to the Store and it to us, we were locked up in a Fun House of Things where the attendant had gone home for life.

Each year I watched the field across from the Store turn caterpillar green, then gradually frosty white. I knew exactly how long it would be before the big wagons would pull into the front yard and load on the cotton pickers at daybreak to carry them to the remains of slavery's plantations.

During the picking season my grandmother would get out of bed at four o'clock (she never used an alarm clock) and creak down to her knees and chant in a sleep-filled voice, "Our Father, thank you for letting me see this New Day. Thank you that you didn't allow the bed I lay on last night to be my cooling board, nor my blanket my winding sheet. Guide my feet this day along the straight and narrow, and help me to put a bridle on my tongue. Bless this house, and everybody in it. Thank you, in the name of your Son, Jesus Christ, Amen."

Before she had quite arisen, she called our names and issued orders, and pushed her large feet into homemade slippers and across the bare Iye-washed wooden floor to light the coal-oil lamp.

The lamplight in the Store gave a soft make-believe feeling to our world which made me want to whisper and walk about on tiptoe. The odors of onions and oranges and kerosene had been mixing all night and wouldn't be disturbed until the wooded slat was removed from the door and the early morning air forced its way in with the bodies of people who had walked miles to reach the pickup place.

"Sister, I'll have two cans of sardines."

"I'm gonna work so fast today I'm gonna make you look like you standing still."

"Lemme have a hunk uh cheese and some sody crackers."

"Just gimme a couple them fat peanut paddies." That would be from a picker who was taking his lunch. The greasy brown paper sack was stuck behind the bib of his overalls. He'd use the candy as a snack before the noon sun called the workers to rest.

In those tender mornings the Store was full of laughing, joking, boasting and bragging. One man was going to pick two hundred pounds of cotton, and another three hundred. Even the children were promising to bring home fo' bits and six bits.

The champion picker of the day before was the hero of the dawn. If he prophesied that the cotton in today's field was going to be sparse and stick to the bolls like glue, every listener would grunt a hearty agreement.

The sound of the empty cotton sacks dragging over the floor and the murmurs of waking people were sliced by the cash register as we rang up the five-cent sales.

If the morning sounds and smells were touched with the supernatural, the late afternoon had all the features of the normal Arkansas life. In the dying sunlight the people dragged, rather than their empty cotton sacks.

Brought back to the Store, the pickers would step out of the backs of trucks and fold down, dirt-disappointed, to the ground. No matter how much they had picked' it wasn't enough. Their wages wouldn't even get them out of debt to my grandmother, not to mention the staggering bill that waited on them at the white commissary downtown.

The sounds of the new morning had been replaced with grumbles about cheating houses, weighted scales, snakes, skimpy cotton and dusty rows. In later years I was to confront the stereotyped picture of gay song-singing cotton pickers with such inordinate rage that I was told even by fellow Blacks that my paranoia was embarrassing. But I had seen the fingers cut by the mean little cotton bolls, and I had witnessed the backs and shoulders and arms and legs resisting any further demands.

Some of the workers would leave their sacks at the Store to be picked up the following morning, but a few had to take them home for repairs. I winced to picture them sewing the coarse material under a coal-oil lamp with fingers stiffening from the day's work. In too few hours they would have to walk back to Sister Henderson's Store, get vittles and load, again, onto the trucks. Then they would face another day of trying to earn enough for the whole year with the heavy knowledge that they were going to end the season as they started it. Without the money or credit necessary to sustain a family for three months. In cotton-picking time the late afternoons revealed the harshness of Black Southern life, which in the early morning had been softened by nature's blessing of grogginess, forgetfulness and the soft lamplight.

First Chapter

Prologue

"What you looking at me for?
I didn't come to stay . . ."

I hadn't so much forgot as I couldn't bring myself to remember. Other things were more important.

"What you looking at me for?
I didn't come to stay . . ."

Whether I could remember the rest of the poem or not was immaterial. The truth of the statement was like a wadded-up handkerchief, sopping wet in my fists, and the sooner they accepted it the quicker I could let my hands open and the air would cool my palms.

"What you looking at me for . . . ?"

The children's section of the Colored Methodist Episcopal Church was wiggling and giggling over my well-known forgetfulness.

The dress I wore was lavender taffeta, and each time I breathed it rustled, and now that I was sucking in air to breathe out shame it sounded like crepe paper on the back of hearses.

As I'd watched Momma put ruffles on the hem and cute little tucks around the waist, I knew that once I put it on I'd look like a movie star. (It was silk and that made up for the awful color.) I was going to look like one of the sweet little white girls who were everybody's dream of what was right with the world. Hanging softly over the black Singer sewing machine, it looked like magic, and when people saw me wearing it they were going to run up to me and say, "Marguerite [sometimes it was 'dear Marguerite'], forgive us, please, we didn't know who you were," and I would answer generously, "No, you couldn't have known. Of course I forgive you."

Just thinking about it made me go around with angel's dust sprinkled over my face for days. But Easter's early morning sun had shown the dress to be a plainugly cut-down from a white woman's once-was-purple throwaway. It was old-lady-long too, but it didn't hide my skinny legs, which had been greased with Blue Seal Vaseline and powdered with the Arkansas red clay. The age-faded color made my skin look dirty like mud, and everyone in church was looking at my skinny legs.

Wouldn't they be surprised when one day I woke out of my black ugly dream, and my real hair, which was long and blond, would take the place of the kinky mass that Momma wouldn't let me straighten? My light-blue eyes were going to hypnotize them, after all the things they said about "my daddy must of been a Chinaman" (I thought they meant made out of china, like a cup) because my eyes were so small and squinty. Then they would understand why I had never picked up a Southern accent, or spoke the common slang, and why I had to be forced to eat pigs' tails and snouts. Because I was really white and because a cruel fairy stepmother, who was understandably jealous of my beauty, had turned me into a too-big Negro girl, with nappy black hair, broad feet and a space between her teeth that would hold a number-two pencil.

"What you looking ..." The minister's wife leaned toward me, her long yellow face full of sorry. She whispered, "I just come to tell you, it's Easter Day." I repeated, jamming the words together, "Ijustcometotellyouit'sEasterDay," as low as possible. The giggles hung in the air like melting clouds that were waiting to rain on me. I held up two fingers, close to my chest, which meant that I had to go to the toilet, and tiptoed toward the rear of the church. Dimly, somewhere over my head, I heard ladies saying, "Lord bless the child," and "Praise God." My head was up and my eyes were open, but I didn't see anything. Halfway down the aisle, the church exploded with "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" and I tripped over a foot stuck out from the children's pew. I stumbled and started to say something, or maybe to scream, but a green persimmon, or it could have been a lemon, caught me between the legs and squeezed. I tasted the sour on my tongue and felt it in the back of my mouth. Then before I reached the door, the sting was burning down my legs and into my Sunday socks. I tried to hold, to squeeze it back, to keep it from speeding, but when I reached the church porch I knew I'd have to let it go, or it would probably run right back up to my head and my poor head would burst like a dropped watermelon, and all the brains and spit and tongue and eyes would roll all over the place. So I ran down into the yard and let it go. I ran, peeing and crying, not toward the toilet out back but to our house. I'd get a whipping for it, to be sure, and the nasty children would have something new to tease me about. I laughed anyway, partially for the sweet release; still, the greater joy came not only from being liberated from the silly church but from the knowledge that I wouldn't die from a busted head.

If growing up is painful for the Southern Black girl, being aware of her displacement is the rust on the razor that threatens the throat.

It is an unnecessary insult.


Chapter 1

When I was three and Bailey four, we had arrived in the musty little town, wearing tags on our wrists which instructed--"To Whom It May Concern"--that we were Marguerite and Bailey Johnson Jr., from Long Beach, California, en route to Stamps, Arkansas, c/o Mrs. Annie Henderson.

Our parents had decided to put an end to their calamitous marriage, and Father shipped us home to his mother. A porter had been charged with our welfare--he got off the train the next day in Arizona--and our tickets were pinned to my brother's inside coat pocket.

I don't remember much of the trip, but after we reached the segregated southern part of the journey, things must have looked up. Negro passengers, who always traveled with loaded lunch boxes, felt sorry for "the poor little motherless darlings" and plied us with cold fried chicken and potato salad.

Years later I discovered that the United States had been crossed thousands of times by frightened Black children traveling alone to their newly affluent parents in Northern cities, or back to grandmothers in Southern towns when the urban North reneged on its economic promises.

The town reacted to us as its inhabitants had reacted to all things new before our coming. It regarded us a while without curiosity but with caution, and after we were seen to be harmless (and children) it closed in around us, as a real mother embraces a stranger's child. Warmly, but not too familiarly.

We lived with our grandmother and uncle in the rear of the Store (it was always spoken of with a capital s), which she had owned some twenty-five years.

Early in the century, Momma (we soon stopped calling her Grandmother) sold lunches to the sawmen in the lumberyard (east Stamps) and the seedmen at the cotton gin (west Stamps). Her crisp meat pies and cool lemonade, when joined to her miraculous ability to be in two places at the same time, assured her business success. From being a mobile lunch counter, she set up a stand between the two points of fiscal interest and supplied the workers' needs for a few years. Then she had the Store built in the heart of the Negro area. Over the years it became the lay center of activities in town. On Saturdays, barbers sat their customers in the shade on the porch of the Store, and troubadours on their ceaseless crawlings through the South leaned across its benches and sang their sad songs of The Brazos while they played juice harps and cigarbox guitars.

The formal name of the Store was the Wm. Johnson General Merchandise Store. Customers could find food staples, a good variety of colored thread, mash for hogs, corn for chickens, coal oil for lamps, light bulbs for the wealthy, shoestrings, hair dressing, balloons, and flower seeds. Anything not visible had only to be ordered.

Until we became familiar enough to belong to the Store and it to us, we were locked up in a Fun House of Things where the attendant had gone home for life.


Each year I watched the field across from the Store turn caterpillar green, then gradually frosty white. I knew exactly how long it would be before the big wagons would pull into the front yard and load on the cotton pickers at daybreak to carry them to the remains of slavery's plantations.

During the picking season my grandmother would get out of bed at four o'clock (she never used an alarm clock) and creak down to her knees and chant in a sleep-filled voice, "Our Father, thank you for letting me see this New Day. Thank you that you didn't allow the bed I lay on last night to be my cooling board, nor my blanket my winding sheet. Guide my feet this day along the straight and narrow, and help me to put a bridle on my tongue. Bless this house, and everybody in it. Thank you, in the name of your Son, Jesus Christ, Amen."

Before she had quite arisen, she called our names and issued orders, and pushed her large feet into homemade slippers and across the bare Iye-washed wooden floor to light the coal-oil lamp.

The lamplight in the Store gave a soft make-believe feeling to our world which made me want to whisper and walk about on tiptoe. The odors of onions and oranges and kerosene had been mixing all night and wouldn't be disturbed until the wooded slat was removed from the door and the early morning air forced its way in with the bodies of people who had walked miles to reach the pickup place.

"Sister, I'll have two cans of sardines."

"I'm gonna work so fast today I'm gonna make you look like you standing still."

"Lemme have a hunk uh cheese and some sody crackers."

"Just gimme a couple them fat peanut paddies." That would be from a picker who was taking his lunch. The greasy brown paper sack was stuck behind the bib of his overalls. He'd use the candy as a snack before the noon sun called the workers to rest.

In those tender mornings the Store was full of laughing, joking, boasting and bragging. One man was going to pick two hundred pounds of cotton, and another three hundred. Even the children were promising to bring home fo' bits and six bits.

The champion picker of the day before was the hero of the dawn. If he prophesied that the cotton in today's field was going to be sparse and stick to the bolls like glue, every listener would grunt a hearty agreement.

The sound of the empty cotton sacks dragging over the floor and the murmurs of waking people were sliced by the cash register as we rang up the five-cent sales.

If the morning sounds and smells were touched with the supernatural, the late afternoon had all the features of the normal Arkansas life. In the dying sunlight the people dragged, rather than their empty cotton sacks.

Brought back to the Store, the pickers would step out of the backs of trucks and fold down, dirt-disappointed, to the ground. No matter how much they had picked' it wasn't enough. Their wages wouldn't even get them out of debt to my grandmother, not to mention the staggering bill that waited on them at the white commissary downtown.

The sounds of the new morning had been replaced with grumbles about cheating houses, weighted scales, snakes, skimpy cotton and dusty rows. In later years I was to confront the stereotyped picture of gay song-singing cotton pickers with such inordinate rage that I was told even by fellow Blacks that my paranoia was embarrassing. But I had seen the fingers cut by the mean little cotton bolls, and I had witnessed the backs and shoulders and arms and legs resisting any further demands.

Some of the workers would leave their sacks at the Store to be picked up the following morning, but a few had to take them home for repairs. I winced to picture them sewing the coarse material under a coal-oil lamp with fingers stiffening from the day's work. In too few hours they would have to walk back to Sister Henderson's Store, get vittles and load, again, onto the trucks. Then they would face another day of trying to earn enough for the whole year with the heavy knowledge that they were going to end the season as they started it. Without the money or credit necessary to sustain a family for three months. In cotton-picking time the late afternoons revealed the harshness of Black Southern life, which in the early morning had been softened by nature's blessing of grogginess, forgetfulness and the soft lamplight.

Introduction

Memoirist, novelist, poet, and dramatist, Maya Angelou is one of the best-loved writers of our time.  She is widely acclaimed for her searing, inspiring writings—and she has been praised for confronting both the racial and sexual pressures on black women, and for infusing her work with a perspective on larger social and political movements, including civil rights.


In the volumes of her bestselling personal story—one of the most remarkable narratives ever shared—Maya Angelou writes about the struggles and triumphs of her extraordinary life with candor, humor, poignancy, and grace. These include:


I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

The classic autobiography of her young years.


Gather Together In My Name

The coming-of-age story of her struggle for survival as a young unwed mother.  


Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas

The saga of her show business career, her failed marriage, and her early motherhood.


The Heart of a Woman

The turbulent story of her emergence as a writer and a political activist.


Wouldn't Take Nothing For My Journey Now

Her exhilarating collection of wisdom, spirituality, and life lessons.

Foreward

1. The memoir opens with a provocative refrain: "What you looking at me for? I didn't come to stay ... "

What do you think this passage says about Ritie's sense of herself? How does she feel about her place in the world? How does she keep her identity intact?

2. Upon seeing her mother for the first time after years of separation, Ritie describes her as "a hurricane in its perfect power." What do you think about Ritie's relationship with her mother? How does it compare to her relationship with her grandmother, "Momma"?

3. The author writes, "If growing up is painful for the Southern Black girl, being aware of her displacement is the rust on the razor that threatens the throat." What do you make of the author's portrayal of race? How do Ritie and her family cope with the racial tension that permeates their lives?

4. Throughout the book, Ritie struggles with feelings that she is "bad" and "sinful," as her thoughts echo the admonitions of her strict religious upbringing. What does she learn at the end of the memoir about right and wrong?

5. What is the significance of the title as it relates to Ritie's self-imposed muteness?

Reading Group Guide

1. The memoir opens with a provocative refrain: "What you looking at me for? I didn't come to stay ... " What do you think this passage says about Ritie's sense of herself? How does she feel about her place in the world? How does she keep her identity intact?

2. Upon seeing her mother for the first time after years of separation, Ritie describes her as "a hurricane in its perfect power." What do you think about Ritie's relationship with her mother? How does it compare to her relationship with her grandmother, "Momma"?

3. The author writes, "If growing up is painful for the Southern Black girl, being aware of her displacement is the rust on the razor that threatens the throat." What do you make of the author's portrayal of race? How do Ritie and her family cope with the racial tension that permeates their lives?

4. Throughout the book, Ritie struggles with feelings that she is "bad" and "sinful, " as her thoughts echo the admonitions of her strict religious upbringing. What does she learn at the end of the memoir about right and wrong?

5. What is the significance of the title as it relates to Ritie's self-imposed muteness?

Customer Reviews
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  • Posted February 22, 2009

    A Review of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

    Albert Ellis once said, "The art of love.is largely persistence" and in I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by critically acclaimed Maya Angelou, persistence is exactly what young Maya intends to keep strong. The completely autobiographical memoir lures the reader in with its depiction of the lives of blacks in the Deep South during the Depression. Within the heart of rural Stamps, Arkansas little Maya and her brother Bailey are prisoners of the tight knit community and all that it brings. Along with their sacrilegious Grandmother, who is constantly in a fit in regards to any lack of obedience, Maya struggles to find her place. On the surface, she plays a character who genuinely enjoys living among her interesting quartet of a family, her Grandmother, her physically disabled Uncle Willie, and her true joy in life, Bailey are all she has in the world until her estranged father arrives to take Maya and Bailey to live with "Mother Dearest." The life of the big city entrances Maya and her imagination. While living with her mother, Maya receives an education, and meets all sorts of different people, one of those people being Mr. Freeman, Maya's mother's boyfriend. When Mr. Freeman takes advantage of eight year old Maya, it becomes clear that the children must be sent back home to their little town of Stamps.
    For the rest of Maya's time in Stamps, she encounters all sorts of different types of people; people who will make a great impact in due time, and those who simply play a role in every day fun. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings portrays a great tale of a young girl's battle to suppress the boredom of country life and strive for a greater meaning to her existence while also dealing with the inevitable battles of growing up.
    Maya Angelou's writing is flawless and each phrase is master crafted to perfection as she explores the truth of her childhood. "Looking through the years, I marvel that Saturday was my favorite day in the week. What pleasures could have been squeezed between the fanfolds of unending tasks? Children's talent to endure stems from their ignorance of alternatives." (113) The beauty of her words flow together in a magnificent mosaic of phrases and each step in this eloquent autobiography leaves a lingering sense of compassion in the reader's heart. The heart wrenching moments, though distressing, are overshadowed by the little joys Maya always seems to find. The way she confronts the temptations and urges throughout her teenage years are exposed in great detail as she takes little steps to achieve what she considers the "normality" of being a teenage girl.
    I truly enjoyed this radiant and joyful story with its realistic balance of pain and pleasure. The reader will be forever mindful of this little girl's journey into adulthood, the quest for love, and the long standing clash with society.

    5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 20, 2010

    Maya Angelou - need I say more

    Typically I read articles on individuals rather than autobiographies - they seem self promoting and long (to me). This reads more like fiction but gives you the idea of where one of America's finest writers was born from. I have always had high regard for Ms. Angelou. Not being an avid reader in the past, I have resolved myself to a New Years resolution to one book a month. She was January and a wonderful way to start.

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 22, 2010

    I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings

    The book, "I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings," is a book about this African American girl, Marguerite, who was perfectly fine one day, then the next, never speaks again. She finally speaks when Ms. Flowers helps her speak again; for the first time in almost a year. Something happen to that girl when she was at her rich grandmother's house, that changed her live forever; something happen, that made her never want to speak again, and Mrs. Flowers seems to be the only person that can help her.
    Marguerite was a beautiful little girl. Her skin was as rich brown, she was very smart too. Her brother and her was both very close. They were like best friends. Her poor grandmother lived in Arkansas and her rich grandmother lived in Missouri. Margurerite would have to travel back and forth to see both. Her parents also lived in Missouri with her grandmother. Her mom seemed to always have a different man around, and her dad, well her dad was always working.
    One day, when Marguerite and her brother was in Missouri visting her grandmother, one of her mom's "boyfriends" came home and was very "touchy" with her. She asked that man, "What do you think your doing?" He replied with, "Let's just play a game." She replied nervously, "I don't think I like this game." He forced her on the couch and sexually abused her. Her mom walks in and she pretends like nothing ever happened. Then when her family in Missouri finds out, they kill the man. Marguerite was so terrified. She blamed the murder on herself, saying that it's all her fault because she opened her mouth. So she said that she will never speak again, so nobody will ever get hurt again. She just wanted to go home to Arkansas.
    Finally, when Marguerite and her brother arrived in Arkansas, nobody can seem to get her to speak. She refused. Wouldn't even speak a word in school. Ms. Flowers came in her grandmother, Mrs. Baxter's store and buys a few groceries. She asked if Marguerite and help her carry them home. Marguerite accepted. So they headed to Ms. Flowers house.
    Ms. Flowers respected her. She read her a beautiful poem, made her cookies, and gave her some tea. Marguerite felt honored and cared for. She was so happy and delighted, that when Ms. Flowers asked her a question; just one question, Marguerite answered with, "Yes, mam." That was her first word since the accident. Her final words. She believed that Ms. Flowers alteast deserved that.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 2, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    A Dramatic Life

    The book started out very interesting, but towards the end, I had trouble staying interested. I read this book without having any prior knowledge of Maya Angelou's life, aside from the fact that she was a poet. I was quite surprised by the amount of issues she had to overcome growing up, and am happy that she is out there writing about her experiences and essentially telling people that it's OK to be awkward.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 29, 2012

    5 Stars

    Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is a memoir of the prejudice she faced growing up as a black girl in the South. She writes this “tale of classic proportions” to shine a light on the injustices she faces while growing up. Facing hardship after hardship, Maya is eventually able to conquer the plights in her life through the unorthodox method of maternity. Maya is able to achieve her ambitions by using the strength gained from her experiences. With a few hundred pages Maya makes the spiritual, emotional, and physical transition from a naïve young girl to a mature young woman. By sharing her experiences with the world, Maya shines a light on the injustices she faces growing up. The author uses her own thoughts and ideas to tell the story instead of relaying events. "If you ask a Negro where he's been, he'll tell you where he's going" (Chapter 25). She gives her take on the proceedings that are taking place around her. The outcome is a wonderfully written story from the innocent perspective of a child. Maya’s relationship with her brother often puzzled me. The most popular boy sticking up for his younger sister? To me that seemed like an illogical exception to a classic stereotype. However Maya’s entire life has been about defying the odds, so it only makes sense that her relationship with her brother would be too. I found the love and compassion shared between them was unequal to anything I had experienced before. They shared everything with each other, their secrets, feelings, and lives. I believe Maya’s brother was her rock that supported her through her life. His confidence in her allowed her to pursue the dreams she had never thought to accomplish. I was touched and inspired by the ending of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. With Maya entering motherhood, she is unsure of her abilities to care for her baby. She is afraid for the wellbeing of her child. Her mother’s confidence in her helps her to realize her abilities. "See, you don't have to think about doing the right thing. If you're for the right thing, then you do it without thinking." In my opinion this is a perfect way to conclude her story, Maya Angelou is a phenomenal writer who

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 10, 2012

    Wonderful.

    Worth th read. I love her books

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 29, 2012

    Makes Readers Believe in Themselves- Recommended.

    I personally thought Maya Angelou’s first autobiography of the series was great, definitely worth three stars. I believe that Maya really did achieve all of her goals throughout her book; she thought back and told the truth about everything she went through, no matter how disturbing the facts were. Maya writes in a very descriptive way that helps you see things clearly in your mind.

    I feel the book is clearly written, but you first have to understand how Maya’s writing works. Often the author jumps back and forth in the story, making it harder to comprehend completely. In other words, Angelou doesn’t go in chronological order so you have to keep track of a lot of information in the book. I found it hard to keep some topics straight, so I found myself re-reading many sections. Also, she writes in a neutral tone that is sometimes hard to see her first reactions to the events that occur. As I got comfortable to Angelou’s writing, I could understand her thoughts more clearly.

    In the book’s final pages, Angelou leaves us off with a cliffhanger. Maya finally has her baby, but that is really all we know. I see this in both a good and bad way. She leaves the readers to make the most crucial decision of all; do you, the reader, think she will be able to care for a baby at age 16? Suddenly, the book ends with a feeling that it’s missing something big. Throughout the story, the readers have been able to learn everything about Maya but when the baby comes we are left with unanswered questions. The readers are left to make a hard decision. There are a lot of negative factors to a teen pregnancy, but there but also up-sides to ponder about too.

    I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is focused on a young girl being raped and her life after that awful experience, segregation, and racism. The readers are able to see many more topics throughout the story, but I thought that these topics were definitely the most reoccurring. This story is not only retelling Maya Angelou’s early life but sends out important messages that are still relatable today. After being hurt multiple times, Maya knows that you have to do what you believe is right. It also tells us that no one is perfect; life is actually about making mistakes. Maya overcomes all her problematic situations and begins to live her new life guilt-free. She realizes that sometimes believing in yourself is better than anything else, which is an excellent message to send out to readers. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is an inspiring read that I would recommend to anyone.

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  • Posted January 29, 2012

    Maya'a Trial and Triumph

    I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou is a touching story that reaches all ages. This story should be read because it stirs the hearts of those that have never been victims of struggle, and strengthens the hearts of those that have overcome lifelong battles of pain.

    I believe Maya’s life is a heartbreaking story with a message about conquering her weaknesses that ends in Maya finding strength and self confidence in herself. Everyone can learn from this message of hope. At times, this inspiring story brought tears to my eyes. Other times, it made me angry and unhappy. In every situation I’d feel what I think Maya wanted me to feel. This story is one that I’d read again if I’m ever feeling like I can’t take anymore of life’s challenges. I’d also suggest this story to any young adult coming of age, especially ones that enjoy inspiration and emotionally complicated stories.

    I think Maya’s purpose for writing this story is to encourage others to overcome themselves and their trials. You must read this story, not only for enjoyment, but hope and motivation. Read it so you can have a reason to not let challenges ruin you but make you better for experiencing them, just as Maya did.

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  • Posted January 29, 2012

    A Complex Childhood

    Everyone has their own story. The novel, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou is a memoir about the author’s childhood. Maya doesn’t specifically address one issue in her book, but instead explains the many events and people that created the chaos of her childhood. This reader gives the book three stars. Maya Angelou’s memoir is a complex reflection on all the things from her childhood that made her who she is today.
    The book starts out with young Maya Angelou living in Stamps, Arkansas with her Grandmother and brother. One summer, she and her brother go to visit with their mother, but return to Stamps after eight-year-old Maya is raped by their mother’s boyfriend. He is then killed by an angry group of townspeople. Maya is scarred and changed forever by the event. She returns to the small town and is silent for quite a while, speaking only to her brother. Eventually, she must grow up and return to the world. She and her brother move back in with their mother and slowly grow apart from one another. Maya deals with many complex and frustrating things in her life, such as the struggle to find a job, driving her drunken father home from Mexico, living in an abandoned car for a few months, and a teenage pregnancy. Her life was not easy by any means, but she learns a lot from it.
    At times, the book feels almost too complex. Miss Angelou’s vocabulary and presentation of words is extremely etiquette and refined, and occasionally difficult to understand. This would certainly not be a book recommended for children because of the content, and the advanced structure of the book. Maya may or may not have achieved her goals in her writing, the reader does not know. She never made her goals for the book very clear. The entire memoir is a collection of many different topics.
    One of the most common motifs in the novel is the issue of racism. The competition between whites and blacks, the rude and intolerable comments she heard, and the sideways glances she caught. Many times, Maya dealt with racism as just another annoying part of life; like bee stings or paper cuts. Not until she grew older did she realize how serious and wrong it was.
    Maya leaves a great deal of things out of the book. We never figure out what happened to her real father, or if her brother ever visited again. She ends the book at the time when she is sixteen, which really isn’t much of her life.
    In conclusion, the book is a lot to take in. There are many themes and messages and ideas that Maya Angelou wants readers to absorb. If someone is looking for a thought provoking, deep meaning book, I would absolutely recommend this one.

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  • Posted January 28, 2012

    Fairly good book- recommended.

    It is very inspiring to read a story filled with great triumphs over tough struggles. Maya Angelou confronts and overcomes racism, rape, poverty, sexuality, and teen pregnancy.

    The one problem with I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is the structure and organization. Angelou jumps right into her storytelling, retelling her memories in a hard-to-follow chronological order. There is a new story every chapter. This can be confusing for the reader. It is very hard to begin, but by the end of the book there is a sense of wholeness and satisfaction. The reader realizes that without knowing it, they have developed a longing to see Maya succeed.

    This novel is a roller coaster of emotions. It brings the reader from the darkest moments of Maya Angelou’s life to a time where she takes control of her own destiny. However, it is hard to follow at times. The reader can become lost in the sudden jump between events. Nonetheless, Maya Angelou’s heart and soul are revealed as she ventures back to her “lost years”. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is an inspiring and highly recommended novel that can lift anyone’s spirits.

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  • Posted January 18, 2012

    Must Read

    This is the classic that will always be relevant for it is born of suffering which is signiture of the human condition.

    Love the work and the woman.

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  • Posted December 20, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    The Definitive Autobiography

    With books out there like, "P.U.S.H." its hard to believe that in its day, "Caged Bird" was banned for Angelou's descriptive account of her childhood molestation. Nonetheless, every author who writes an autobiography should aspire to be THIS GOOD. I read the book as an assignment in Freshman English 101, but it definitely made me want to continue on to her next installment ("Gather Together in My Name"), even though is wasn't required for the class!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 27, 2011

    Power and Strength Do Not Come Easy

    Maya Angelou writes her life story in the book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, expressing through stories of her childhood how she was shaped into the strong young adult version of herself at the end of the story. I liked how the in the beginning of the story she starts off with an uncomfortable situation she dealt with at church and how this showed her insecurities as a child. Maya explains how the time period and the environment she lives in was a daily struggle for the social discrimination against African Americans. Also as siblings, Maya and her older brother Bailey always had it tough, dealing with the separation of their parents because they sent them to Arkansas when they were very young and their parents lived in California, their mother in San Francisco and their father in Los Angeles. One of my favorite scenes from the book was when the children received Christmas presents from their parents that brought a lot of confusion and upset to them. Maya goes out to the backyard to be alone to sort out her feelings which is described well through imagery. Bailey comes out to the place where Maya has been crying and tries to be the older, manly figure by sniffling instead of losing it all where she cries and cries. I thought it showed a beautiful connection between the siblings and what they have been through and the uncertainties of their future. People would like this book because it¿s constantly interesting; her stories bring adventure, like her trip to Mexico with her father where she drives down a mountain with her father asleep in the backseat. Her stories also bring a lot of emotion for example when she leaves her dad¿s house and lives in a car for a month before coming back to her mother. Even though those times were tough for her, she explains without those types of experiences she wouldn¿t have matured the way she did and she wouldn¿t have learned the most important things in life. She believes the people in someone¿s life who give the same effort of love and appreciation as that person gives them are the ones to keep close to their heart.

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  • Posted October 24, 2011

    Highly Recommended - A Must Read!!!

    Loved the book, it is definately a book that everyone should experience in their life.

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  • Posted October 16, 2011

    This is wa Hat

    This is what i want for my b day

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  • Posted October 6, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    A must read

    I loved this book. Excellently written, poignant, no syrupy rememberance this. Angelou was obviously a woman of great insight, strength, and intelligence from the very beginning. I appreciate the complexity of these early years of her life and learned a lot about this earlier time and how it influenced my own growing up era. In telling her story, Angelou puts some much needed perspective on American society, culture, and racism but without neglecting the shared experiences. Highly recommended.

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  • Posted September 7, 2011

    One of the most amazing books.

    Seeing as I did not know this book was an autobiography until I read the Q&A, I would say it definitely would be one of the best autobios I have ever read. I really do not tend to read autobiographies because I find most dull and unfulfilling. I would much rather prefer fiction--which I thought this was until the end-- but I must say this book was excellent.

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  • Posted July 20, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Great!

    I read this for a summer reading program, and at first i thought i wouldn't like it, but it was really great! Such a touching book. I recommend it highly.

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  • Posted June 6, 2011

    Loved It!

    I loved the way this autobiography read. Beautifully written and kept my interest until the very end. Her words are identifiable, entertaining, captivating, and heart-felt. I found myself telling my two children about her stories in hopes it would bring their relationship closer as she was with her brother. You won't be disappointed!

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  • Posted May 1, 2011

    not good

    it wasn't very good i didnt read it i looked on sparknotes to do my book report on it

    0 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

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