Yet in these thoughts myself almost
despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at
heaven's gate;
Thy sweet love remembered such wealth
brings
That then I scorn to change my state with
kings.
Sonnet 29
This week many marked the passing of literary trailblazer,
Maya Angelou. I remember being introduced to her in my early twenties through
her first memoir, I Know Why the Caged
Bird Sings. Her magnetic personality was irresistible and her joyous
transcendence of a traumatic childhood inspiring. Her belief in the power of
words was so pronounced that, as a child, she imposed a vow of silence on
herself that lasted for over five years.
She had been raped by an uncle. Upon discovering the crime, her family had
urged her to identify the culprit. Later, after the man had served a short
prison term, he was killed by another family member as an act of retribution—and
Angelou felt responsible. Through magical thinking, she believed that speaking
the rapist’s name had sealed his doom, which only added to the horror. Thereafter,
she denied herself speech.
But during those silent years, she immersed herself in other
peoples’ words, reading every book in her local library starting with the authors
whose names began with “A” and working her way through the alphabet. After
being coaxed out of her silence, she eventually went on to become a person
widely recognized for the unique ebullience of her voice, in both song and prose.
During this past week of tributes, I heard an excerpt from a
1986 interview Angelou gave to Fresh Air’s
Terry Gross in which Angelou explained how she had decided she wanted to write.
She described how moved she had been upon discovering Shakespeare. She recited part of Sonnet 29: “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s
eyes,/ I all alone beweep my outcast state . . . .” She explained how she had marveled over the
fact that he, a middle-aged white man from another culture and century, had so
perfectly captured sentiments felt by a young black girl from the American
South living in the 20th century. That sense that writers have the
potential to bridge seemingly disparate worlds later inspired her to find her own
voice as a writer, which in turn opened a channel through which the stories of many
others would flow, the intimate stories of other women of color whom the
mainstream culture had not previously regarded as worthy of widespread
attention (writers like Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Ntozake Shange).
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
From “Phenomenal Woman” by Maya Angelou.
RIP, Maya.