Book #2: I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
September 12, 2012
Having just finished Maya Angelou’s best-known book, I can’t
help but feel a sense of regret that I didn’t pick this one up a long time ago.
This is another one of those books that’s been sitting untouched on my shelf
for over two years, and one that I’ve meant to read for longer than that. Most
people who have not read the book are at least familiar with the basic premise:
Angelou, a famous black poet, writes about her childhood. I am not typically
drawn to nonfiction (though I’m trying to include a fair number of them in this
excursion), but a couple of books that I’ve appreciated have been memoirs by
women reflecting on their childhoods.
One of these memoirs was Marya Hornbacher’s Wasted, recalling her years growing up in
Minnesota/California and her struggles with a serious eating disorder, mental
illness, and substance abuse. Another one was Jeanette Walls’s The
Glass Castle, about her own difficult
childhood with parents who led them on strange adventures, and into painful
poverty. I actually used this
book in a class that I taught last year, and the class of freshmen and
sophomores (most non-readers) seemed to connect with Walls’s story more than anything
else that we read that term.
What these three texts have in common is that all three of
these women bravely recall, put to print, and present to the world their
painful childhood experiences. The three women come from different places, are
of different races (more on that in a moment), and lived in different times,
but they all share the simple fact that they had to fight to make it to
adulthood intact (more or less). As I read Angelou’s descriptions of how
awkward she felt as a child, how she didn’t feel like she didn’t fit in
anywhere, that really struck a chord with me. I might be a white girl who grew
up in the ‘90’s in Iowa, but I understand that feeling of not belonging and
feeling awkward. I can hardly think of those mortifying moments of my childhood
without feeling a sense of shame. I spent years putting my childhood behind me
and not letting it define who I am. Angelou, who definitely had more than her
share of personal difficulties alongside with her awareness of the place that
society was trying to force her into as a young black girl, bravely laid out
all of those painful memories to the world.
Not only is Angelou’s work brave, it is written gracefully
and poetically. Angelou is a poet, of course; I’ve had girls eager to have her
as their subject in a poetry unit that I taught at my last job. I can never
imagine her being clumsy, the way that she describes herself in the book, when
she writes so beautifully, even when the subjects are sometimes ugly and
difficult to read.
I can never seem to turn off my “teacher mode”; as with my
last book, as I read this one, I found myself thinking of how I would
incorporate this into my future classroom. I’m trying to just read for the
enjoyment of it, for the enrichment that it can provide to my life, and I still
can’t stop the lesson plans from forming in my head. But this is one that I’ll
definitely want to have.
Aside from the fact that this is a beautifully written
personal account, the text also presents a unique perspective on race
relations, as Angelou recalls her feelings of frustration as an intelligent,
self-aware black girl. I will admit that it wasn’t until a few years ago that I
was made aware of the true atrocities of the Jim Crow south. I didn’t read
Richard Wright until college, and until then, the only thing I knew about
“segregation” was that it ended (at least legally) because of the Civil Rights
Movement. I don’t believe that Angelou ever used the term “Jim Crow” in this
text, but her descriptions of her time in Stamps, Arkansas (and even some of
the scenes from San Francisco) show it. The fact that the only time in her
childhood when she experienced any sort of “racial harmony” was her month
living in a junkyard in Southern California really makes you think. In the
“real world” that Angelou grew up in, different races were made to live
separately and to fear one another. But Angelou, as she grew into a determined
young woman, was not willing to accept that all people, regardless of their
color, were helpless victims of racism.
I believe that anyone who has had a childhood can connect
with this book, regardless of their color and where and when they grew up. Out
of all of the powerful statements Angelou makes in this book, one that she made
in retrospection of her relationship with her mother really struck me: “But
what mother and daughter understand each other, or even have sympathy for each
other’s lack of understand?” (page 68 in my edition). I actually looked up from
my book and declared to my dog (the only other living thing in the room), “Holy
shit.” Instantly, I thought of my own mother, a woman that I’ve always felt
that I’ve had very little in common with. My mother always seemed to relate
more to my brother and sister, and I always felt very apart from all of them. I
never understood some of the hurtful, selfish things that she does (though, as
I’ve kind of stood away from the situation and tried to analyze it from an
outsider’s perspective, I’ve come to some detached conclusions about my
mother’s psyche), just as I’m sure she’s never understood my love of books and
information or my need for quiet. I am lucky to have had a good relationship
with my father (while Angelou had her older brother Bailey) to at least make me
feel somewhat connected to the people in my family. But even though I’ve moved
back to town, I still rarely see or speak to my mother. I guess “it be’s like
that sometimes.”
(Above) Jeannette Walls's The Glass Castle. Highly recommended, though I should note that there is quite a bit of "strong language" (my students got a kick out of the unique combinations of curse words used by Rex Walls, the author's father).
(To the right) Marya Hornbacher's Wasted. I read this a couple of times in high school, during a rough period for me.
