The Gateway to Angelou

I was introduced to the writing of the great American author and poet, Maya Angelou, the same way I suspect most people are - high school English class. The autobiographical "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" wasn't an instant favorite of mine, but it intrigued me a little. While the rest of the seemingly bored and aloof class moved on to Shakespeare's Macbeth, Angelou's words were still tumbling around in my head. I think I needed time to digest them and read them again before the full gravity of their meaning struck me. Then my interest and curiosity overfloweth.

So, I went to the library after school and checked out everything they had in her name. One book did become an instant favorite, it was a complete collection of her poems in hardcover. I read it that night, returned it the next day, and bought my own copy. Sadly, my Macbeth essay only received a C+ or so (low for this enthusiastic fan of English). And I loved Macbeth, I really did. I even memorized my lines when we had to recite a scene in small groups in front of the class, something no one else bothered to do. But I put in sloppy effort on the essay because I was up that night reading Angelou's poems. I should have at least received extra credit or something, right? ha!

The book of poems had an image of a colorful patchwork quilt on the dust jacket. It also had its very own space on my crowded nightstand. Over time it took a beating from my clumsiness though; if it were possible for liquid to have a magnetic mate, it would be that book. But like my favorite pair of jeans it was just lovingly worn-in, a familiar comfort I was attached to.

Some time later, when I was perhaps 19 years old, I read in the Star Tribune that Ms. Angelou was going to do a book signing at a book store in Minneapolis. Oh, Joy! I practically leaped out of my seat. She was like a hero and role model to me, getting me through my difficult teenage years. And having been born the same year as my grandma, another important female role model in my life, she was like a second grandmother to me. So, the opportunity to actually meet her and get her autograph on that book sent me over the moon! Almost as much as NKOTB did in junior high. Almost. (I'm not afraid to admit, I pierced eardrums over Jordan.) I daydreamed possible scenarios of the intelligent conversation Ms. Angelou and I would surely have. I gazed at the blank inside cover of "the book", as it shall be hereforth known as, and envisioned some nice words of encouragement along with her signature in her pretty handwriting. How cool would that be?!! The adult me is still a little giddy at the thought.

The next week dragged by and when Saturday finally came I sprang out of bed at the crack of dawn. While my friends were sleeping in or hungover (or both) I drove myself and "the book" downtown in my '76 Chevy Malibu, incidentally manufactured the same year I was born. Now, I'm a country girl and I generally refuse to drive downtown because I hate doing it and I'm bad at it, so this was true devotion here, folks. I got lost of course, and this set me back a good 45 minutes. But eventually I found the store and a parking spot. By the time I was done with a sad attempt at parallel parking, fiddling with the parking meter that was a foreign object to me, and hoofing it 5 blocks, the line of autograph-seekers had wound around the corner and down the street. Great.

But I didn't come this far to give up now, hell no. Even my line neighbor's rancid morning breath couldn't dissuade me. I stood there for what seemed like hours and hours as the line inched forward at an agonizing pace. During this time we were briefed on the rules, what we could and couldn't do and say to Ms. Angelou, etc. - but all I recall hearing was "A new purchase is required to receive an autograph." My heart sunk as I looked down at the stained and tattered book in my hands that would never pass for new. I dug through my purse for every little coin I could find, but McDonald's didn't pay much and after feeding my gas-guzzler and the parking meter from Hades, I had a whopping $5 left. Here my memory gets a little fuzzy... my next clear memory was the announcement that she was nearing the end of the signing, but if she didn't get to us we could still go inside and make purchases, of course. Of course! Because I always wait in line 2 1/2 hours to buy a wall calendar! What a racket. I began to doubt if she was even in there. It was another blow, but I decided I wasn't giving up; I clung to the narrowest of hopes.

Then, all of a sudden I was there. I was the very first person in the outdoor line! The building entrance was a mere 3 feet away and things were looking up. Then came what seemed the final blow, they announced they were ending the autograph line. No one standing outside the store would get an autograph today because she was tired and had somewhere to be. I was the cut-off person! Of course. The pimple-faced guardian of the "Gateway to Angelou" must have noticed the disappointment on my face because he said that I could still give it a try. So I went in and bought a small copy of her inaugural poem and got in the autograph line anyway. I got a few glimpses of her but she left before I could get the autograph. *weep*

Wasted:
$3 for gas money (this was the 90's)
$2 to feed a parking meter I didn't know was free on the weekends
$5 for a copy of a poem I already owned
4 hours of my life (on a Saturday, no less)

Crushed:
My dream of meeting the living legend and poetic heroine whose writing I leaned on and courage I admired.

Even though it wasn't personal at all and she wasn't even aware of my existence, it felt personal to the emotionally fragile teenager I was. My feelings were hurt and I was angry. "The book" was chucked into the nightstand drawer. And even though I knew it wasn't really anyone's fault, my feelings about the incident and her were a little on the bitter side for years.

I've since forgiven Maya Angelou. But never have I stood in another line for a book signing. In fact, I hate all long lines and avoid them at all costs. The pay-off is rarely worth the wait anyway. I'll still drive downtown if the occasion is special enough, for instance Twins games. I'm still really bad at it and get lost while looking for parking ramps because I'm afraid to parallel park. Today "The book" and printing of the inaugural poem are somewhere in Seattle, hopefully comforting and inspiring someone else. I left them behind when I moved back to Minnesota last year. I didn't have enough room in my little Ford Focus so my books were sacrificed. Even my complete Anne Rice collection in hard cover *sob*. Thank goodness for libraries. I don't need to own books anymore, it seems I never have the space to store them anyway. But there's one book I do wish I would have hung onto, can you guess which one?

Ms. Angelou, if you're reading this, you are the very essence and embodiment of feminine strength, wisdom, and grace. You are phenomenal and I treasure the gifts you've given me. I still carry with me the messages and lessons, if not the books themselves. In my imagination "Letter to My Daughter" was written just for me. I am your daughter, but one of millions. And your life has touched and affected ours in ways you will never comprehend. So, thank you and God Bless. (And I still want that autograph!)

No doubt she's a regular reader of this blog, lol. Okay, long story over. Here's my hands-down favorite of her poems. Besides the obvious awesomeness of the message, I love the rhythm. I swear that woman has a natural symbiosis with words and rhythm.

Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

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.