"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.
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
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
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
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
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
"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
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.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Excerpted from "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" by Maya Angelou. Copyright © 0 by Maya Angelou. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.