I was sitting on a bench, savoring the last remnants of warm sunlight that the dying summer was gently oozing out. I was intently scrutinizing a newspaper, while deliberately assuming a thoughtful gaze.

Suddenly, this little girl ran up to me. She exclaimed, "Mister, mister, I know why the caged bird sings!"

I reluctantly looked up from reading the financial news. "That's great kid. Now run along, can't you see I'm busy?" I said dismissively.

I then turned back to reading about how poorly the economy was performing. There's nothing quite like reading bad news to feed the intellect.

However, the girl persisted. "But mister, mister, the caged bird sings and I know why! I know why, la-di-da, la-di-doo, and so should you!"

She skipped and danced excitedly. A group of people gathered around, bestowing kind smiles on the girl and casting eager looks in my direction, as if pleading with me to listen to her. With a sigh, I put down the paper and said, "Alright little one, tell me all about that bird of yours."

And so, she began to talk. She spoke about her grandmother Momma, how strong she was, about her momma Mother Dear, such a beautiful lady, about handsome and kind Brother Bailey and big and absent Father Bailey, and about her little life in a corner of a small shop. Despite its size, that corner offered the perfect vantage point to observe what was happening in the big world and in the minds of the people who inhabited it. She excitedly shared her sweet childhood memories and her keen observations. She provided an insider's perspective on a part of the world and society that I was completely unfamiliar with.

I had heard about cotton pickers, of course, and had seen them depicted in popular culture. But through her tales, I saw not just mere depictions, but real life people, worn out by the burdens of their work. I could see their fatigue in the small spasms of pain around their lips and the quivering of their shoulders, and the absence of the sparkle in their eyes as they told their jokes. Yet, even as I looked into this unknown world, much of it felt familiar to me, and I realized that this unknown world was my world, our world, but there was this wall. Who had put that stupid thing there? The little girl showed me the window in that wall, and her generous spirit had left it wide open as the breeze of her story blew through it.

I willed her to keep talking, and she did, with passion and patience.

Suddenly, the girl stopped dancing. Looking down at the ground, she said in a voice as tiny as a cat's whisker, "A big man hurt me. Real bad."

She looked up, and the playful twinkle in her eyes was gone. I was ready to stand up, hold her in my arms, and tell her that everything would be okay. But her eyes, filled with defiance, pride, and intelligence, told me that she would have none of that. She started dancing again, slowly and more deliberately.

More memories followed. The tale evolved into one dealing with one of society's greatest embarrassments, of black people being denied the opportunity to work on tramcars, of dentists refusing to treat little children of a specific ethnic background. But despite the enormity of all this humiliation, the little girl remained at the center of the stage, through her courage, wit, and wisdom. Her pace quickened, and I heard a melody of personal memories, powerful anecdotes, and fiery statements of indignation.

She sang, "The house was smudged with unspoken thoughts."

A bit later, she said, "The unsaid words pushed roughly against the thoughts that we had no craft to verbalize, and crowded the room to uneasiness."

Her apparent eloquence made these melodious statements all the more profound.

"The need for change bulldozed a road down the center of my mind."

"My relief melted my fears and they liquidly stole down my face."

And then, she gave a momentous description of the wall of racism. The girl told me about how a lady receptionist had refused to allow her to file a candidacy for a job she coveted. The reasons were hidden yet obvious. The girl then sang:

"The miserable little encounter had nothing to do with me, the me of me, any more than it had to do with that silly clerk. The incident was a recurring dream, concocted years ago by stupid whites and it eternally came back to haunt us all. The secretary and I were like Hamlet and Laertes in the final scene, where, because of harm done by one ancestor to another, we were bound to duel to the death. Also because the play must end somewhere. I went further than forgiving the clerk, I accepted her as a fellow victim of the same puppeteer."

I was awestruck, but she was clearly waiting for me to say something.

"What a wonderful tale! You're giving that clerk an easy pass there, but I'm sure that once you're a bit older you'll reconsider this imagery, however beautiful it is. But what about that bird, little girl? You didn't mention it, let alone the reasons for its singing?"

"I ain't no little girl no more, mister!" she retorted.

And with that, she stomped off in a fit of pique and out of my sight.

I wonder if I'll ever see her again. I sure hope so. I want to know about that bird.

This may seem rather unusual to some of you. In fact, I was only vaguely aware of what this remarkable autobiography was all about.

And until just five minutes ago, I had never delved into any of Ms Angelou's poems. (I've just read the poem that she used to name this memoir of her childhood, which you can find at https://allpoetry.com/I-Know-Why-The-.... I'm planning to review that masterpiece later.)

But then I looked at the blurb on my copy, a copy that I've had for several years.

I came astonishingly close, so very close, to being able to read this book completely unspoiled.

Damn it!

Nonetheless, this is still a reading experience that I will never forget. It will assist me in understanding (as an outsider) American history and politics a little better. It will even help me make more sense of the events of this month.

There are numerous pivotal events that contributed to making Ms Angelou the amazing person she must have been. Such as the horrifying grooming and subsequent rape of eight-year-old Marguerite Johnson (her real name), which led to even more harrowing events. And a white dentist who owed the grandmother who raised Angelou a huge favor. He refused, refused to extract two rotten teeth from a child in agony simply because he didn't want to put his hands in a n*****'s mouth.

That was truly confronting and enraging to read. I can't fathom how he could live with himself. I sat bolt upright in my chair, shocked to the core.

The writing is beautiful, even in those parts that are ugly and painful to read.

I will most definitely be reading more of Angelou's works.

  

   
      
   
  

Maya Angelou's story of her youth is a complex and profound one.

It ends with the birth of her son, which is a fitting conclusion as it marks the beginning of her journey into adulthood and the responsibilities that come with it. Despite being only a teenager when she had him and having had just one hasty and unsatisfying sexual experience to conceive him, the arrival of her son brings a new sense of purpose.

Her upbringing was disjointed, with her moving between households across the country. Starting in the deep South and passing through other states, she eventually ended up in San Francisco. Her parents divorced early, and her first memories are of her father's mother who raised her. She and her brother, Bailey, were then moved to St. Louis to live with her mother's mother. Later, she moved with her mother, brother, and a Mr. Freeman to an apartment in St. Louis.

Tragically, at the age of 8, she was sexually assaulted and raped by Mr. Freeman while her mother was out working. This traumatic experience had a profound impact on her, causing her to lose her voice literally for years. She believed that her speaking had led to a man's death, but perhaps there was also a deeper sense of trauma and anger within her.

Despite the darkness of her past, Maya Angelou was able to move on. She turned to school and the power of words, finding solace and strength in education. Along the way, she was helped by a few gentle angels, such as teachers and good neighbors, who brought light to the darkness and gave her the support she needed to overcome her past and build a new life.

Her memoir is a moving and powerful account of her life, filled with both pain and hope. It serves as a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit and the importance of finding light in the darkness.

I have only ever given 5 stars to two autobiographies. One was written by a white English man; the other by a black American woman. On the surface, you would think they could have very little in common. However, they do. They both possess insight and compassion, which shines through in every sentence. They have both shown remarkable courage in almost unbearable situations. In short, they share a common humanity. The white man is Terry Waite. The black woman is Maya Angelou.

"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" by Maya Angelou is a book that will tug at your emotions. It is not a manipulative work; rather, it is a raw and honest account, beautifully expressed. But if you didn't take a deep breath sometimes before turning the page, you wouldn't be human.

It is frustrating to think that this description of poverty and unfounded prejudice is within living memory, in a so-called "free" country. In the United States, the Committee on Equal Employment Opportunity was established in 1961, before the Civil Rights Act of 1964. It preceded the Race Relations Act of 1965 in the United Kingdom, which was the first legislation to address racial discrimination. Yet, the differences in perception and attitudes between the two countries in the early and middle parts of the 20th century were vast.

Perhaps it is due to the sheer size of the US, but the racial segregation that was ever-present, at least in the Southern States, was never a characteristic of English life or life in Great Britain. There was prejudice, to be sure. When there was an influx of black people in the 1960s to fill specific job vacancies, such as nursing or bus drivers and conductors, some black people endured a great deal of abuse and humiliation from some members of the white public. For example, landladies would put up signs saying "no coloureds" in their windows. But the discrimination was never institutionalized. Unlike South Africa and the Southern States of America, there were no separate schools, townships, or public toilets. The UK was not a racist society as such, although some individuals within it certainly were.

What comes across in this book, especially to a non-American, is that the racial segregation was tolerated. It was the norm at every turn. It seems so deeply ingrained that it is astonishing that any progress could be made from such a starting point. For this appalling account of ignorance and prejudice is surprisingly recent. Maya Angelou was born in 1928, and was thus slightly younger than my own mother. And she was describing events that were closer in time to when she was writing them than we are now ahead in time. It ends in 1944, before the end of World War II. This is the first part of her autobiography, which eventually spanned seven volumes, with the final volume being published in 2013.

I was, of course, familiar with Maya Angelou's works, but for some reason, I had never got around to reading them. "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" had been sitting on my bookshelf for 20 years, unread. Perhaps part of me suspected that it would be a harrowing read, but I had not anticipated its dry humour. Maya Angelou passed away last year, in 2014. There is a certain poignancy in discovering a writer just after they have died. Sometimes it happens because they achieve greater prominence for a short time. When the reaction is so positive, the experience is tinged with a hint of regret, although it is absurd. For so many long-dead classic authors, that opportunity is not available to us from the start. It would have been nice to appreciate them more during their lifetime. Will I continue to read the subsequent parts? Certainly. The five stars are not awarded solely to the person. They are awarded to the work, as they should be. It is an extraordinary first book, especially considering that the author is someone who believes that the voice is essential for meaning, someone who was always recognized as a passionate performance poet. From this book alone,

"Words mean more than what is written on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with deeper shades of meaning."

Here is her memory of an inspiring natural teacher, Sister Flowers,

"I had read 'A Tale of Two Cities' and found it up to my standards as a romantic novel. She opened the first page and I heard poetry for the first time in my life... her voice slid in and curved down through and over the words. She was almost singing."

"As I ate, she began the first of what we later called'my lessons in living.' She said that I must always be intolerant of ignorance but understanding of illiteracy. That some people, unable to attend school, were more educated and even more intelligent than college professors. She encouraged me to listen carefully to what country people called mother wit. That in those homely sayings was the collective wisdom of generations... I wanted to look at the pages. Were they the same that I had read? Or were there notes, music, lined on the pages?"

Perhaps then it is not so surprising to find a poetic turn of phrase, such as lyrical prose as,

"in the dying sunlight, the people dragged rather than their empty sacks"

or a beautifully evocative description. But be warned. Not everything that is vivid here is beautiful imagery,

"I remember the sense of fear that filled my mouth with hot, dry air and made my body light"

"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."

The blurb itself, if you read it, will tell the reader about some very disturbing events that are described, but those parts will evoke a deep emotional response. The work also provides context for much of her poetry; the anger and prominent themes in her poetry become part of the unfolding account of her life. And in this, the staggered telling of her tale is also very effective. She alternated a book of poetry with a book of autobiography, and these memoirs are far more expressive and revealing than a single static book of past autobiography could be. The gradual telling of her story feels more in the present than it does as reflection.

The first volume begins with the author, then known as "Marguerite Johnson," at 3 years old, being sent on a train journey with her 4-year-old brother. Neither of them had any idea why they were being sent South to live with their grandmother, "Momma," in the tiny town of "Stamps," Arkansas. Most of this first part is about her life there; her strict upbringing by the poor, but proud and upright, religious woman who dedicated herself to making as good a life as she could for her disabled son and grandchildren.

"I was liked, and what a difference it made."

The store served the needs of all those in Stamps, mostly workers in the cotton fields. The recent history of slavery is almost palpable. The conditions at times seemed little better than in the past. Each day, the workers started with optimism, but they were trapped in a life from which they realistically could never escape; never being paid enough for their work to get out of debt. Yet, nearly all these people were hard-working and honest.

"Although there was always generosity in the Negro neighborhood, it was indulged at the expense of sacrifice. Whatever was given by Black people to other Blacks was most probably needed just as desperately by the donor as by the receiver. A fact that made the giving or receiving a rich exchange."

There are wonderful descriptions of her grandmother's store. It is a hub for the community, a working business, but for young Marguerite, it is a treasure trove of smells and sights.

"the store was my favorite place to be. Alone and empty in the mornings, it looked like an unopened present from a stranger"

She remembers the days there, the pride of her handicapped Uncle Willy, the extremely strict regime that she and her brother Bailey Junior were expected to endure. Her grandmother, a businesswoman, was highly respected in the exclusively black area of Stamps.

"I remember never believing that whites were really real... These others, the strong pale creatures that lived in their alien unlife, weren't considered folks. They were white-folks."

"People in Stamps used to say that the whites in our town were so prejudiced that a Negro couldn't buy vanilla ice cream"

She escaped whenever possible into her fantasy world of books.

"I met and fell in love with William Shakespeare. He was my first white love... 'When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes.' It was a state with which I felt myself most familiar"

"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."

As the author grew older, her perception of bigotry, her indignation at the racial unfairness that pervaded everything in her experience, grew. She accepted without understanding the submissive attitudes she was expected to adopt and the subservience she had to show, observing of Momma,

"She didn't cotton to the idea that white folks could be talked to at all without risking one's life. And certainly they couldn't be spoken to insolently"

But her grandmother wanted the best for the two children.

"I swear to God, I rather you have a good mind than a cute behind."

There is much about loneliness and alienation in this first novel. Maya Angelou tried to cultivate a philosophical attitude towards her experiences.

"Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between"

"Like most children, I thought if I could face the worst danger voluntarily and triumph, I would forever have power over it"

But the instances piled up one on top of another. Even the wild, neglected, and dirty "powhitetrash" children jeered, made fun of, and looked down on all the people in the black neighborhood. A doctor, a dentist - people who should have been literally indebted to her grandmother because of the financial help she had given them in the past - showed truly shocking and insulting behavior when asked for help. The white people almost exclusively treated the black people worse than they would treat their animals. It is difficult to convey without telling the story how each tiny instance compounded. During a court case,

"The judge had really made a gaffe calling a Negro woman 'Mrs'"

because, of course, a white person's perception was that a black person did not deserve the status of respect.

The book seems to build up until the reader feels that something has to give.

The author reflects that it was perhaps one instance of profound prejudice that severely affected her brother emotionally, which led to their being sent away from Arkansas. They had only lived there for a couple of years when the two children were collected by their father, a cultured giant of a man, and taken back to live with their mother - "Mother Dear" as Bailey called her - in St. Louis. Their lives take a sudden turn from this point, living with this impulsive, beautiful butterfly of a woman with her film-star looks. A crime is committed when Maya is just eight years old. This is brutal; an appalling account to read, both a physically and psychologically raw and graphic description. The child is the victim, but as so often happens, the victim is convinced that she is somehow guilty. Circumstances force her to tell a small lie, and for this too, she cannot forgive herself. The children return to Momma.

The next few years are chronicled in the book with a lot of movement between the adults in the family. They have to deal with extremes in moral codes. From the earliest chapters, the reader has been stunned by the extremist Christian doctrine of their grandmother. Beating a child for saying "by the way" because - regardless of whether the child understands or not - it was considered to be blasphemy. Another small incident that haunts the reader is Bailey Junior being beaten for longing so much for his mom that he watched a similar-looking film star and was late home. There are countless such examples. These are very hard to accept because these two things were done by the good people - the ones with a sense of duty and responsibility. The ignorant prejudice in the wider community, outside the town of Stamps, was oddly easier to read about than this, which felt like a betrayal by the adults whom the children trusted.

But later, the moral code is turned upside down. Both Maya's mother and father were city folk working in a very different world. Her father in Mexico had friends who were almost gangsters, with a completely different sense of morality, although in itself the ethical code was just as strong.

"The needs of a society determine its ethics."

These parts are very entertaining to read and must have been an eye-opener to a young teenager from such a narrow background.

The book ends when Maya Angelou is 17. Although her given name was "Marguerite," she was always called "Maya" because her brother called her "My-a," trying to say the words "my sister." To the little girl, that felt like her true identity, not what others called her. There is one episode in the book where a white woman tried to call her "Mary" for her own convenience - "because it was shorter." That is a hugely emotional part of the book. The reader can sense the profound insult; the hidden history of "ownership." I gave a mental cheer when Maya managed to turn this around.

At 12, Maya had graduated from Lafayette County Training School. I personally found this to be almost the most moving part of the book. Maya was an extremely talented and hard-working child. The reader senses her feelings overflowing - her well-deserved pride in her achievements. But yet again, because of an incident involving an ignorant white person, her whole world comes crashing down around her ears.

"Graduation, the hush-hush magic time of frills and gifts and congratulations and diplomas, was finished for me before my name was called. The accomplishment was nothing. The meticulous maps, drawn in three colors of ink, learning and spelling decasyllabic words, memorizing the whole of 'The Rape of Lucrece' - it was for nothing. Donleavy had exposed us. We were maids and farmers, handymen and washerwomen, and anything higher that we aspired to was farcical and presumptuous."

Maya Angelou had somehow recovered from the terrible crime committed against her at 8 years old. How could she possibly recover from this one? How can one person continue to have courage, strength, and fight? Isn't it easier just to give up and say, "Yes Ma'am"?

"The Black female is assaulted in her tender years by all those common forces of nature at the same time. She is caught in the tripartite crossfire of masculine prejudice, white illogical hate, and Black lack of power."

This is a book that will sometimes make you ashamed to be a member of the human race. It is, in part, a catalogue of Man's inhumanity to man, woman's inhumanity to woman. It will also, however, make you proud of what can be achieved. One hopes it was cathartic to write, but it is far more than the flood of misery sagas that have inundated our bookshelves in recent years. It is nonfiction, but it is as entertaining as a novel; parts of it read like lyrical prose. It has some devastating descriptions of brutality, yes, but there is also much to smile about, often in her dry little asides.

"The custom of letting obedient children be seen but not heard was so agreeable to me that I went one step further: Obedient children should not see or hear if they choose not to do so"

"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" is an important, defining, incredibly brave work for its time in 1969. From a relatively unknown author, the world was firmly introduced to the reality of racial tensions and prejudice in the Southern United States. It was a book that would have been very difficult to read without the author's strength and humour shining through, and it remains so, over 45 years later.

The book grabs you from the start. Maya Angelou has a unique ability to make any reader identify with a poor black child, to experience what they experience, regardless of the reader's own life situation. There is much talk nowadays of the "Black Voice." Maya Angelou does not alienate. She does not seek to select her audience; she speaks to us all. Her book is self-evidently from a black perspective, but she skillfully makes it the reader's own, firmly putting us all in the mind of herself as a child. She conveys her various feelings of confusion, pride, hatred, despair, guilt, and rage, expressing so well the reasoning behind them at the time.

Her use of dialect is perfectly balanced for a general reader. It is authentic and essential, yet at no point is the reader likely to have to stop, reread, and try to understand. I personally have had far more difficulty with my experience of classic books that attempt to include a written representation of my own native, regional Yorkshire speech. This is part of her great skill as a writer - it flows. She focuses on our common humanity. This is a book that can, perhaps should, be read by everyone at least once in their lifetime. It shows how far both an individual and a society can progress within one person's lifetime.

"The fact that the adult American Negro female emerges a formidable character is often met with amazement, distaste, and even belligerence. It is seldom accepted as an inevitable outcome of the struggle won by survivors and deserves respect if not enthusiastic admiration."

As tiny Marguerite Johnson might have said - although she would have "corrected" her own grammar, as all people have different vernaculars for different situations, and black people of

I firmly believe that the vast majority of ordinary girls are virtuous. This is mainly due to the scarcity of opportunities that might otherwise lead them astray.

Maya Angelou is a remarkable individual who refuses to be sentimental, nostalgic, or self-righteous about anything. She approaches life with an open sense of curiosity and common sense. Her prose is the wonderful outcome of a mind that is extremely sharp and a heart that is full of life. I truly doubt that there is any woman in the world who won't be able to recognize at least some of her agonies within themselves.

Writing from a position of having acquired knowledge about the world, she allows the young and ignorant girl to come back and worry about being a lesbian because she was mesmerized by "The Well of Loneliness" but had no real understanding of what it actually meant. It also shows how the girl deceived her family for eight months and a week about her pregnancy - without actually telling a blatant lie.

If Maya wants to learn something new, she opts for empirical study. To figure out her sexuality, she straightforwardly asks a young man in the neighborhood to be her case study, and then she learns in an empirical way that pregnancy can follow unprotected intercourse.

The joy and pain that accompany her poems find their explanations in the first volume of her autobiography. This volume has moments of intense pain, but also a self-confident embrace of life at all costs.

From the young girl dreaming of being white to the teenage mother learning to take care of another human being, we follow the universal initiation rites as well as the specific coordinates of African American female life. Each word in her work weighs heavily, and yet it still rises, leaving a profound impact on the readers.

I have scant interest in the traditional autobiography. It is a genre that I link with celebrities who are striving for more publicity and greater financial gain.

There is also the perception that a proficient novelist could distill all the pertinent information in any autobiography into a couple of chapters, sparing us the laborious task of plowing through 350 pages.

It seems peculiar that through an autobiography, we can, on the surface, learn more about a stranger than we know about our own parents. It feels odd and also fraudulent.

A novel is essentially a writer convincing us that a series of falsehoods is the truth. An autobiography, on the other hand, is an individual purporting to tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. That in itself is an unrealistic assertion.

I believe this is why we all adore novels with an unreliable narrator. Because there is something intrinsically true about that perspective.

Truth from only one perspective - a monologue - is often unreliable because life, after all, is about relationships.

I know almost nothing about Maya Angelou. I don't understand why she elected to write an autobiography rather than fiction. I read this because I repeatedly came across wonderful quotes by her.

Regrettably, none of those quotes emerged in this book. There is nothing amiss with this book except perhaps the material is rather thinly spread, but I had anticipated that the quality of the writing itself would be more thrilling.

Also, she confines herself to the perspective of the person she was at the time, and she is never older than seventeen in this book, so there was little of her adult wisdom, which was yet another letdown.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

“Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between.”

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, the first of Maya Angelou's seven autobiographies, is an engaging and remarkable memoir. It details the life of Maya (Marguerite) from the age of three until sixteen, along with her one-year older brother, Bailey Jr. After their parents' marriage collapses, Maya and Bailey are sent to Depression-era Stamps, Arkansas, with tags on their wrists addressed to "To whom it may concern." Sadly, no one, not even relatives, seems much concerned about their comings and goings. The sense that these children are on their own is strengthened, and they realize that despite the lack of bonds, they are not free.

Much of the story of segregated Stamps, Arkansas, focuses on the prejudice they face at the hands of "powhitetrash" and how it impacts their sense of self and place in society. This racism is a significant reason why freedom can be elusive, even for someone as strong and resilient as Maya. The second half of the book largely follows Maya's early teenage years in Los Angeles and San Francisco. Angelou writes this engaging memoir with sensitivity, beauty, and a uniquely powerful voice. 4.25 stars

Racism, as depicted in movies and novels, against black people might be thought to have vanished and ended as humanity has become more civilized and advanced. Therefore, looking at these movies and novels might seem like a kind of entertainment that we enjoy immersing ourselves in from time to time.

However, in reality, we have only been able to get rid of racism as a behavior, which is still a matter of debate, while our language still preserves a huge heritage of racist words and expressions.

Years ago, I read the book "Abu Qalam" by the Emirati writer and lawyer Ahmed Amiri, and I urge those who haven't read it to take a look. In one of its chapters, it shows how our language is racist and discriminatory against the color black, even if it is used metaphorically and not literally. It gives examples of linguistic expressions that we all use unconsciously... and sometimes perhaps consciously. One of them is the expression "whitening money," which means that illegal money is black in color and must be whitened to make it legally earned. When we talk about Africa, we refer to half of it as the "black continent" because of the skin color of its people, although in reality it is green. We don't refer to Europe as the "red continent" because of the skin color of its people. We refer to a list that includes dangerous people as the "black list," and we refer to someone who is quick to do good as having "white hands," as if we are saying in another way that the hands of the wicked are black.

I also remember that when I was in elementary school, the Arabic language teacher, who was explaining a lesson on simile, metaphor, and allegory... etc., gave an extremely racist example. He said that when we compare a girl to the moon, there are two possibilities: either she is beautiful and white like the bright half of the moon, or she is ugly and black like the dark half.

Over the years, I have become more cautious in using the word "black." Until recently, I described black people as having "dark skin," as if the color black was an insult that could hurt their feelings. Later, I realized that if we are serious about getting rid of racism, we must first stop using discriminatory linguistic expressions that associate everything bad with the color black. Then, we should not feel embarrassed to use the word "black" to describe black people.

Black is not a defect; it is just another color. The defect is to think that it is a lesser color than the others.

Recently, I watched a documentary film about the churches in Africa, and I was surprised that Jesus in the statues and pictures that fill the churches is black. But when I think about it carefully, I find myself convinced that Jesus could only have been black. Throughout human history, the color black has been a small Christ, carrying on his back the heavy cross, while the other colors rain insults, curses, and stones on him as he walks the path of pain.

I have read many great novels that dealt with the issue of racism against black people, such as "To Kill a Mockingbird," "The Color Purple," and "Let the Lord Help the Child." But this novel is different and unique because it is not just a novel; it is a fictional biography of a girl who discovered that the world she was born into only saw her as an ugly being because of her skin color. So, with great courage and frankness, she decided to turn the mirror on the world so that it could see its own face, which is extremely ugly and shameful.

Read along with a friend.

I really enjoyed this book to a certain extent. However, it turned out to be yet another coming of age story, and I have been reading quite a number of such stories recently. As a result, at times, it got a little bit boring for me.

The writing in the book was truly wonderful. The author had a great way with words and was able to create vivid images and engaging characters. But despite that, I probably won't pick up the next couple of books in this series.

Maybe I need a break from the coming of age genre for a while. I'm looking forward to exploring other types of stories and finding something that will really capture my attention and excitement.

Overall, this book was an okay read, but it didn't quite meet my expectations.

Maya Angelou was an incredibly talented poet and a Nobel laureate. She had the honor of giving an address at President Clinton's inauguration. Before achieving all her numerous awards and honors, Maya was raised in rural Stamps, Arkansas. During the depression, she lived with her grandmother and uncle.

First published in 1969 and now regarded as a modern classic, "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" describes Angelou's tumultuous childhood in vivid and poignant detail. Born Marguerite Johnson and often called Ritie, she and her older brother Bailey were taken to live with their grandmother at a young age after their parents' divorce. Despite the south being in the grip of Jim Crow and Stamps being at the forefront of segregation, young Maya seemed to have a loving childhood. Raised by a strict, church-going grandmother and uncle, Maya and Bailey found comfort in both books and each other. They devoured books like candy and quickly advanced through the Stamps educational system, two grades ahead of schedule.

When Maya was eight and Bailey nine, their father came to Arkansas and took them to live with their mother in St Louis. Coming from a multi-racial family, some members of Maya's maternal family were light-skinned enough to pass for white and integrated into the German community. It was in St Louis, a city that should have offered Maya more opportunities than rural Stamps, that she experienced the lowest point of her childhood. Physically abused by her mother's fiancé, Maya recovered and returned to Stamps and a loving environment. She and Bailey continued to live with their grandmother until they outgrew the education system in the segregated south. With no future prospects other than being a house servant or a cotton picker, the two were sent back to their mother, now living in desegregated California.

In California, Maya had both highs and lows and also faced the return of Jim Crow. The lowest point was when she had to live in a car in a junk yard for a month. These experiences, including being reunited with both parents and building relationships with them, provided material for Maya to reflect on later in life in this volume. It is truly remarkable that Maya could overcome being abused as a young child and still graduate from school two years ahead of schedule at a high academic level. This is a tribute to her grandmother as well as her own inner strength. This strength led her to become the first colored streetcar operator in San Francisco and later the poet laureate that people still recognize today.

Maya Angelou credited Langston Hughes, Paul Laurence Dunbar, and Booker T Washington as her writing influences. Washington encouraged a generation of African Americans to achieve employment through a great education. In her dedication, Angelou also mentioned her parents as positive influences in her life after they reconciled. A gifted author and poet who was advanced beyond her years as a child, Maya blessed us with her powerful prose in all her works of literature. "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" offers a poignant look into a childhood in the Jim Crow era and reveals the upbringing of a remarkable American woman. A courageous peek into Angelou's life, this first memoir of hers easily deserves 5 bright stars.

Hmm, congratulations to Ms. Angelou on her remarkable courage in facing struggles that most people could never endure. As she eloquently wrote, "The fact that the adult American Negro female emerges a formidable character is often met with amazement, distaste and even belligerence. It is seldom accepted as an inevitable outcome of the struggle won by survivors and deserves respect if not enthusiastic acceptance."

However, as a '90s child, this book seemed rather anachronistic to me. I have a great appreciation for Victorian novels, despite never having experienced that era. I have witnessed racial attacks frequently, living in a country still in its developmental stage. And again, Ms. Angelou has achieved much for herself. But the fact remains that this was not a particularly good "book" in my opinion.

Regarding the plot, granted it's an autobiography, but describing commonplace church meetings for 20 pages straight hardly seems worthy of recording. The parts where she wrote her own reflections, both in retrospect with the maturity of years and at the time of her actions, were indeed very well-written and often quite beautifully. I would have preferred more of those and less of the country folks doing nothing but boring me to death.

The book does provide a very nice portrayal of all the characters involved through her tiny naive girl's nervous perceptions, which it encapsulates very well. But unless you're enrolled in a post-slavery literature course, conducting research on African Americans, or are simply too proud to not read a highly acclaimed book (*gulp*), I wouldn't highly recommend it.

If I ask myself if I liked the time spent with the book, the honest answer is no. I cannot even give this 2 stars. For me it was not OK.

Please note that I respect the bravery of the woman who dared to write about her life as a child and through her teens, until she becomes a woman, and how she was sexually and psychologically exploited. At the book’s end, at the age of about seventeen she was a woman and an adult. Life had hardened her. I respect her, but I am not judging her when I give the book one star. I want to be very clear on that point. She even has the ability to look back and tell some of the events with humor. That takes strength!

I do not think the book is well written. The writing simply did not appeal to me. I did not enjoy the words chosen to express her feelings and experiences. Life has delivered to her one beating after another. Her writing reflects her strong character and her thick-skinned attitude toward life. The lines are to the point, straight-forward and presented in a no-nonsense voice.

This is a coming of age story. It is about how a girl comes to view her own sexuality. It is explicit; this matches the tone of the entire book. You do come to understand her dispassionate attitude toward life. Even if memoirs and biographies are my favorites, not everyone has a story to tell and not everyone has the ability to tell that story properly. Her life was difficult, but not without kind family members - she had her paternal grandmother and her brother. Maybe it is good that her story has been told, but I feel perhaps another could have told it better.

I am starring the book, not the person and not the narration. I star both books I dislike and those I detest as one-star books. I disliked the book but detested the narration by the author. She reads the lines very slowly, in a measured, steady tone with every syllable enunciated one by one. It is read, not spoken. There is little feeling in the voice. I find this amazing since it is her own story; why don't her emotions peep through? In addition some of the words were completely indecipherable. Some, but not all I could figure out from the context. Do NOT listen to the audiobook. If you want to read it, read the paper book. This was one of the worst recordings I have ever listened to.

It doesn't feel very nice saying what I am saying, but this is the truth and authors must be willing to hear how readers are honestly reacting to their book. Remember I am not judging her as a person. I admire her as a person; she didn't go under.