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AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Gather Together in My Name

The Heart of a Woman

All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes

A Song Flung Up to Heaven

ESSAYS

Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now

Even the Stars Look Lonesome

Letter to My Daughter

POETRY

Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water fore I Diiie

Oh Pray My Wings are Gonna Fit Me Well

And Still I Rise

Shaker, Why Don't You Sing?

I Shall Not Be Moved

On the Pulse of Morning

Phenomenal Woman

The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou

A Brave and Startling Truth

Amazing Peace

Mother

Celebrations

CHILDREN'S BOOKS

My Painted House, My Friendly Chicken, and Me

Kofi and His Magic

PICTURE BOOKS

Now Sheba Sings the Song

Life Doesn't Frighten Me

COOKBOOK

Hallelujah! The Welcome Table

for

Martha and Lillian,

Ned and Bey,

for the laughter,

the love and the music

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to the Bellagio Study and Conference

Center of the Rockefeller Foundation

particularly Bill and Betsy Olsen

A special thanks to my friend and

secretary, Sel Berkowitz

CHAPTER 1

“Don't the moon look lonesome shining through the trees?

Ah, don't the moon look lonesome shining through the trees?

Don't your house look lonesome when your baby pack up to leave?”

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the spaces between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.

In my rented room (cooking privileges down the hall), I would play a record, then put my arms around the shoulders of the song. As we danced, glued together, I would nuzzle into its neck, kissing the skin, and rubbing its cheek with my own.

The Melrose Record Shop on Fillmore was a center for music, musicians, music lovers and record collectors. Blasts from its loudspeaker poured out into the street with all the insistence of a false mourner at a graveside. Along one wall of its dark interior, stalls were arranged like open telephone booths. Customers stood playing their selections on turn tables and listening through earphones. I had two hours between jobs. Occasionally I went to the library or, if the hours coincided to a free dance class at the YWCA. But most often I directed myself to the melodious Melrose Record Store, where I could wallow, rutting in music.

Louise Cox, a short blonde who was part owner of the store, flitted between customers like a fickle butterfly in a rose garden. She was white, wore perfume and smiled openly with the Negro customers, so I knew she was sophisticated. Other people's sophistication tended to make me nervous and I stayed shy of Louise. My music tastes seesawed between the blues of John Lee Hooker and the bubbling silver sounds of Charlie Parker. For a year I had been collecting their records.

On one visit to the store, Louise came over to the booth where I was listening to a record.

“Hi, I'm Louise. What's your name?”

I thought of “Puddin' in tame. Ask me again, I'll tell you the same.” That was a cruel childhood rhyme meant to insult.

The last white woman who had asked me anything other than “May I help you?” had been my high school teacher. I looked at the little woman, at her cashmere sweater and pearls, at her slick hair and pink lips, and decided she couldn't hurt me, so I'd give her the name I had given to all white people.

“Marguerite Annie Johnson.” I had been named for two grandmothers.

“Marguerite? That's a pretty name.”

I was surprised. She pronounced it like my grandmother. Not Margarite, but Marg-you-reet.

“A new Charlie Parker came in last week. I saved it for you.”

That showed her good business sense.

“I know you like John Lee Hooker, but I've got somebody I want you to hear.” She stopped the turntable and removed my record and put on another in its place.

“Lord I wonder, do she ever think of me,

Lord I wonder, do she ever think of me,

I wonder, I wonder, will my baby come back to me?”

The singer's voice groaned a longing I seemed to have known my life long. But I couldn't say that to Louise. She watched my face and I