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I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings Paperback – Deckle Edge, April 21, 2009

by Maya Angelou (Author), Oprah Winfrey (Foreword)

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Maya Angelou’s debut memoir is a modern American classic beloved worldwide. Her life story is told in the documentary film And Still I Rise, as seen on PBS’s American Masters.

Here is a book as joyous and painful, as mysterious and memorable, as childhood itself. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings captures the longing of lonely children, the brute insult of bigotry, and the wonder of words that can make the world right. Maya Angelou’s debut memoir is a modern American classic beloved worldwide.

Sent by their mother to live with their devout, self-sufficient grandmother in a small Southern town, Maya and her brother, Bailey, endure the ache of abandonment and the prejudice of the local “powhitetrash.” At eight years old and back at her mother’s side in St. Louis, Maya is attacked by a man many times her age—and has to live with the consequences for a lifetime. Years later, in San Francisco, Maya learns that love for herself, the kindness of others, her own strong spirit, and the ideas of great authors (“I met and fell in love with William Shakespeare”) will allow her to be free instead of imprisoned.

Poetic and powerful, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings will touch hearts and change minds for as long as people read.

“I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings liberates the reader into life simply because Maya Angelou confronts her own life with such a moving wonder, such a luminous dignity.”—James Baldwin

Print length

304 pages
Language

English
Publisher

Random House Trade Paperbacks
Publication date

April 21, 2009
Dimensions

5.6 x 0.85 x 8.1 inches
ISBN-10

9780812980028
ISBN-13

978-0812980028
Lexile measure

1010L
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Popular Highlights in this book

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She said that I must always be intolerant of ignorance but understanding of illiteracy.
Highlighted by 5,916 Kindle readers
Without willing it, I had gone from being ignorant of being ignorant to being aware of being aware.
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Of all the needs (there are none imaginary) a lonely child has, the one that must be satisfied, if there is going to be hope and a hope of wholeness, is the unshaking need for an unshakable God. My pretty Black brother was my Kingdom Come.
Highlighted by 4,169 Kindle readers

From the Publisher

James Baldwin says, “Liberates the reader…such a moving wonder, such a luminous dignity.”


	The Complete Poetry	Letter to My Daughter	Phenomenal Woman	Mom & Me & Mom	The Heart of a Woman	The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou

Customer Reviews	2,575	4,664	973	4,395	2,367	1,119
Price	$16.52	$14.99	$9.59	$8.30	$13.00	$27.58
Discover more books by Maya Angelou	A complete collection of poetry, including Maya Angelou's inaugural poem “On the Pulse of Morning”	Maya Angelou shares her path to living well and with meaning in this absorbing book of personal essays	A collection of beloved poems about women from the iconic Maya Angelou	A moving memoir about the legendary author’s relationship with her own mother	Read unforgettable vignettes of Billie Holiday and Malcom X, as Maya Angelou chronicles the burdens of a Black mother in America	Maya Angelou’s classic memoirs have had an enduring impact on American literature and culture

Editorial Reviews

Review

“I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings liberates the reader into life simply because Maya Angelou confronts her own life with such a moving wonder, such a luminous dignity.”—James Baldwin

About the Author

Maya Angelou was raised in Stamps, Arkansas. In addition to her bestselling autobiographies, including I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and The Heart of a Woman, she wrote numerous volumes of poetry, among them Phenomenal Woman, And Still I Rise, On the Pulse of Morning, and Mother. Maya Angelou died in 2014.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Prologue

"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.

Chapter 1

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 Henderson.

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 twenty-five years.

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 guitars.

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 plantations.

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 standing still."

"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 agreement.

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.

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ 0812980026
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Random House Trade Paperbacks (April 21, 2009)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 304 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 9780812980028
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0812980028
Lexile measure ‏ : ‎ 1010L
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 11 ounces
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.6 x 0.85 x 8.1 inches

Best Sellers Rank: #31,965 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #34 in Literary Criticism & Theory
- #110 in Author Biographies
- #371 in Women's Biographies

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Maya Angelou

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Maya Angelou has been waitress, singer, actress, dancer, activist, filmmaker, writer and mother. As well as her autobiography she has written several volumes of poetry, including 'On the Pulse of the Morning' for the inauguration of President Clinton. She now has a life-time appointment as Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University in North Carolina.

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Leon

It is amazing that we can hear Dr

Reviewed in the United States on January 22, 2017

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Here's my review on one of the three books that I've read by Maya Angelou:

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings:
Smiling Through Sadness

Maya Angelou’s first memoir, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, captures the sweetest, purest, and the most honest inner voice of a black child who grew up to be a heroine. Dr. Angelou does not censor anything; She wants us to know it all. It is so true, straightforward, and uncensored that many white parents have attempted to ban this book from schools. This memorable and mysterious autobiography - originally published in 1969 - was followed by another masterpiece entitled: Gather Together In My Name. Both books are available in audio format recorded by Random House Audio. It is amazing that we can hear Dr. Angelou reading her own books to us just like a grandmother putting us to sleep with her adventurous bed-time stories.
Dr. Maya Angelou, who has been honored and awarded numerous times, is a pure soul writing about the evil world of the racist America keeping a matching voice on each chapter of her life. When she is writing about her experiences as a five-year-old, you hear a five-year-old talking to you. Being one of the most recognized public figures and a civil rights movement’s heroine, Maya Angelou, gives us a poetic journey of how a poor disadvantaged black girl was rejected by everyone including her own mother, raped by her mother’s boyfriend, and had to witness his crippled uncle hiding under a pile of onions and potatoes to be protected from racist white beasts on a regular basis. The good news is that the story of I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings does not end here. This bird sings her heart out until the cage breaks and she becomes our national treasure.
This powerful modern American classis has changed many readers’ (and listeners’) hearts and minds in a way that every great work of literature should. This book became the best-seller immediately after it was published. What added to my personal itch to read this book when I was first introduced to it was the fact that Dr. Angelou has described William Shakespeare as one of her strongest influence on her life and works. Shakespeare is my all-time favorite “pennist.”
Buy it, read it, keep it, reread it, highlight it, talk about it, advertise it, buy more of it and give it out as a gift, learn from it, and apply what you’ve learned from it in your daily life. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings is coming from a heart and soul of someone who had to witness the unnecessary, harsh, and brutal insults that no ordinary human being can bear. Maya Angelou writes the story of a human who was pushed to her limits by the ugliness of this world and while being in a saddest cage, sang the happiest song. Once precious Maya Angelou told her younger generation that seem to be unable to cope with the racism in the past and present:
“You should be angry. You must not be bitter. Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. It doesn’t do anything to the object of its displeasure. So use that anger. You write it. You paint it. You dance it. You march it. You vote it. You do everything about it. You talk it. Never stop talking it.”

283 people found this helpful

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Maurice Miles Martinez

Maya Angelou Inspired My Poetry and Writing!!!

Reviewed in the United States on October 2, 2021

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I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, is a Memoir by Maya Angelou. Like my book, The Real Wakandas of Africa, this book discusses racism in America. The book brilliantly engages the reader with the kind yet honest voice of the author as you experience her life from a child to African American icon. Her memoir is brutally honest and will grip you as you turn through its pages. This book is also available in audio format and were read by Maya Angelou. While she was alive, I had the pleasure of hearing her speak. Her cadence will grab you. Her words will make you think, and you will walk away a different person from this book. I can personally say that after hearing her speak, I was inspired to write some of my first conscious poetry which I continue today in podcast form. She will take you on a journey through her childhood and her life as a poet. Like this book, I also discuss racism in my book The Real Wakandas of Africa. However, I detail the beauty of African history before slavery and colonialism. Prior to slavery and European colonialism Africans built the tallest building in the world which stood as the tallest building for more than 4000 years. Africans performed surgery on the eye to remove cataracts 700 years ago, and conducted cesarean sections in Central Africa with antiseptics hundreds of years before they were performed in Europe or America. They smelted carbon steel 2000 years before Americans or Europeans knew about this process. In the field of astronomy, they charted star systems for hundreds of years before they were uncovered by American telescopes. Africans also built the longest wall in the world for which I also wrote a book called: The Great Wall of Africa: The Empire of Benin’s 10,000 Mile Long Wall. Unfortunately, this history has been ignored by books that discuss racism, and the exclusion of this contributes to the misunderstanding of Black history. Maya Angelou inspired me to in so many ways. She has inspired me to become a poet and author. Her book will keep you engaged and on the edge of your seat! Pick up your copy of her book today!

14 people found this helpful

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rainyg8

wow

Reviewed in the United States on December 29, 2023

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This is a classic, more than a classic, for a reason. Her prose. Her experiences. This book was moving but it felt so much more personal than anything I’ve ever read. That’s what I’ll remember most about it, the thoughtfulness and intimacy. Maya Angelou had an extremely difficult childhood and it’s an honor to read her retelling and understanding of it. It’s amazing that she remembers so many details and feelings and that she weaves them so well with later insights (only when needed). There’s a reason why they make you read this book in high school and it’s unfortunate that so many will miss out on reading it while young.

5 people found this helpful

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natalie fulton

Great

Reviewed in the United States on March 10, 2024

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Ordered yesterday evening and came today!! Book came with a couple marks on the front, but nothing major. Pages are nice and evenly organized. Can't be more excited to start reading!

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Bernie M

Great read!

Reviewed in Canada on March 28, 2024

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Heard about Maya Angelou often. Read some of her poetry. I'm a white male in his late fifties and enjoyed reading this black female's sad personal autobiographical rendition of racism and sexism. But it's her style of writing that just grabs you. As if you had known her personally all your life. This is my first book of hers, I will definitely read more.

One person found this helpful

Alejandra Lopez Carbajal

Estremecedor

Reviewed in Mexico on January 29, 2024

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El libro es maravilloso y devastador al mismo tiempo. Fácil de leer y difícil de no enganchar, de no sentir impotencia, y frustración y cariño. Lectura obligada para entender un poco de lo que significa ser una minoría.

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Tatiane

Ótimo preço!

Reviewed in Brazil on November 8, 2023

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Versão econômica, mas achei ok pelo o preço pago: 8,20 durante a promoção Mega Ofertas (acho que é esse o nome das ofertas que teve agora em Outubro).

Tem muitos outros livros em inglês que são versão econômica e mesmo assim são um horror de caros, então achei um preço justo e não me importo muito com o tipo de papel usado.

Ainda chocada que paguei só isso em um livro novo em inglês!

Seria ótimo se tivesse mais promoções de livros internacionais com preços de fato baixos. Quase sempre mesmo com descontos, mesmo sendo capas comum/econômicos, a maioria que quero estão sempre nessa faixa de 60-80 reais. Que ofertas são essas!?!?!

Entrega dentro do prazo pela Loggi e sou cliente prime. Produto internacional vendido e entregue pela Amazon.com.br.

2 people found this helpful

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Anis Mangenda

Maya Angelou book

Reviewed in Germany on February 5, 2024

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I bought This book for my Wife and SHE Loved it.

Booknightreviews

A must read

Reviewed in India on November 8, 2023

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This is definitely a book that I loved so much. Maya Angelou shared her insecurities, problems and the ways in which she overcame them. This story is an inspiring piece of work.

One person found this helpful

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