A letter to you from...

Maya, I was called ‘Maya’ for as long as I remember. My one- year- older brother Bailey Jr. couldn’t pronounce my name. I was Marguerite Anne Johnson, born on April 4, 1928, in St. Louis, Missouri. My Father; Bailey Johnson Sr., a porter and navy dietitian and Mother was Vivian “Bibbie” Baxter, a nurse.

My parents separated in 1931, Pops whom everyone called Bailey Sr. sent three-yearold me and Bailey Jr. to live with our grandmother, Annie Henderson, in segregated Stamps, Arkansas. Momma, as we called her, was the only black female storeowner in rural Stamps and was highly respected. She was amazing, momma truly was.

Despite the fact that severe poverty abounded, Momma prospered during the Great Depression and World War II by supplying basic staples. In addition to running the store, Momma took care of her paralyzed son, whom the children called “Uncle Willie.”

I was unwanted and ugly as a child especially as I was ‘black’. I was utterly helpless and frustrated about being myself. Looking like I looked, I felt disgusted. I realized later on that I was capable of conceiving knowledge better than many others I knew of. Well, they did call me ‘smart’; which I didn’t how to appreciate.

At times, I sought to hide my legs, greased them with Vaseline, and dusted them with red clay -- deeming any color was better than black. Bailey, my little brother on the other hand, was charming, free- spirited, and extremely protective of me. He was not as self-conscious as I was, maybe because he was a boy.

Momma us to work in the store, and I watched the exhausted cotton-pickers as they trudged to and from work. Momma was the chief stabilizer and moral guide in our lives, giving us valuable advice in picking our battles with white people. Momma warned that the slightest impertinence could result in lynching.

The daily indignities manifested through entrenched racism made life in Stamps miserable for the displaced children including us. The shared experience of loneliness and longing for our parents led to a strong dependence on each other. Our escape for even for few minutes was reading. The passion for reading provided a refuge from our harsh reality. I spent every Saturday in Stamps’ library, eventually reading every book on its shelves.

After four years in Stamps, I and Bailey were surprised when our handsome father appeared driving a fancy car to take us back to St. Louis to live with our mother. I watched curiously as father interacted with our grandmother and brother, Uncle Willie -making them feel inferior with his boasting. I did not like it, especially when my brother Bailey -- the splitting image of our father -- acted as if this man had never abandoned us.

I and Bailey stayed with Vivian and her older boyfriend, Mr. Freeman. Vivian was strong, vibrant, and independent like Momma, treating us well. However, she was dispassionate and I could not establish a close relationship.

I craved my mother’s affection so much that I began confiding in her boyfriend.

My 7 1/2-year-old innocence was shattered when Freeman molested me on two occasions and then raped me -- threatening to kill Bailey if I told anyone.

Although he was found guilty at a hearing and sentenced to one year in jail, Freeman was temporarily released. Three weeks later, I overheard police telling Grandma Baxter that Freeman had been found beaten to death, presumably by our uncles. The family never mentioned the incident.

I thought I was responsible for Freeman’s death by testifying. I was confused and resolved to protect others by not speaking. I became mute for five years, refusing to speak to anyone except Bailey Jr. After a while, Vivian was unable to deal with my emotional state. She sent us back to live with Momma in Stamps, much to Bailey’s discontent. The emotional consequences caused by the rape followed me throughout my lifetime.

Momma wasted no time getting me help by introducing me to Bertha Flowers, a beautiful, refined, and educated black woman.

She was a great teacher who exposed me to classic authors, such as Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, and James Weldon Johnson, as well as black female authors. We memorized certain works by the authors to recite aloud – Making me realize that words have the power to create, not destroy.

Through Mrs. Flowers, I realized the power, eloquence, and beauty of the spoken word. The ritual awakened my passion for poetry, built confidence, and slowly goaded me out of my silence. Once reading books as a refuge from reality, I now read books to understand it. To me, Bertha Flowers was the ultimate role model -- someone I could aspire to become.

I graduated with honors in 1940 from Lafayette County Training School. An eighth-grade graduation was a big occasion in Stamps, but the white speaker insinuated that the black graduates could only succeed in sports or servitude, not academics. I was inspired, however, when the class valedictorian led the graduates in “Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing,” listening for the first time to the song’s words. Life became clearer and I saw direction to life.

Several incidents I faced. I once went to a white dentist with momma. He refused to treat me. He said instead that he would rather stick his hand in a dog’s mouth than in mine, because I was ‘black’. On another occasion, I came home terribly shaken one day, having been forced by a white man to help load a black man’s dead, rotting body onto a wagon.

Momma prepared to get us away from further dangers. Never having traveled more than 50 miles from her birthplace, Momma left Willie and her store to take me and Bailey to Vivian our mother in Oakland, California. Momma stayed six months to get us settled before returning to Stamps.

Vivian chose to marry “Daddy Clidell,” a successful businessman who moved the family to San Francisco. Upon my entrance into Mission High School, I was advanced a grade and later transferred to a school where I was one of only three blacks. I liked one teacher, Miss Kirwin, who treated everyone equally. At 14, I received a full college scholarship to the California Labor School to study drama and dance.

Daddy Clidell was the owner of several apartment buildings and pool halls, and I was enthralled by his quiet dignity. He was the only true father figure I ever knew, making me feel like his cherished daughter. But when Bailey Sr. invited me to stay with him and his much younger girlfriend Dolores for the summer, I accepted. I was shocked to discover they lived in a low-class trailer home.

Dolores and I didn’t get along. When Bailey Sr. took Maya to Mexico on a shopping trip, it ended disastrously with me driving my inebriated father back to the Mexican border. Upon our return, jealous Dolores confronted me, blaming me for coming between them. I slapped Dolores for calling Vivian a whore; Dolores then stabbed me in the hand and stomach with scissors.

I ran from the house bleeding. Knowing I couldn’t hide my wounds from Vivian, I did not return to San Francisco. I was also afraid that Vivian and her family would cause trouble for father remembering what happened to Mr. Freeman. Father took me to get my wounds wrapped at a friend’s house.

Determined never to be victimized again, I fled the home of my father’s friend and spent the night in a junkyard. The next morning, I found there were several runaways living there. During my month-long stay with the runaways, I learned to not only dance and cuss but to also appreciate diversity, which influenced the rest of my life. At summer’s end, I decided to return to mother, but this experience left me feeling empowered.

In the fall, before school started I discovered that I was pregnant.

After calling Bailey, I decided to keep my pregnancy a secret. Afraid that Vivian would make me quit school, I threw myself into studies, and after graduating from the Mission High School in 1945 confessed my eighth- month pregnancy. Claude Bailey Johnson, who later changed his name to Guy, was born shortly after 17- year- old Maya’s graduation.

I adored my son and, for the very first time, felt needed. My life became more colorful as I worked to provide for him by singing and dancing in nightclubs, cooking, being a cocktail waitress, a prostitute, and a brothel madam. In 1949, I married Anastasios Angelopulos, a GreekAmerican sailor. But the interracial marriage in 1950s America was doomed from the start, ending in 1952.

In 1960, after hearing civil rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. speak, I wrote along with Godfrey Cambridge, Cabaret for Freedom, to benefit King’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC). I was then appointed SCLC’s Northern Coordinator by Dr. King.

I moved to Ghana later on, there I became an administrator at the University of Ghana’s School of Music and Drama, an editor for The African Review, and a feature writer for The Ghanaian Times. As a result of these travels, I was fluent in French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, SerboCroatian, and Fanti ( a West African language).

I wrote, produced, and narrated Blacks, Blues and Black! a ten-part documentary series about the link between the blues music genre and black heritage. Also in 1968, attending a dinner party with Baldwin, I was challenged to write an autobiography by Random House editor Robert Loomis. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, my first autobiography, which was published in 1969, became an immediate bestseller.

I’ve been condemned, insulted, molested and raped among many other challenges. Amidst of everything I went through, as a black woman I have gained knowledge and lived life to my desire. After momma passed away I promised myself to be an inspiration to myself.

Be the inspiration you want. You are strong and capable of steering life in to the direction you want.

“Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise

I rise

I rise.”

Maya Angelou

Written by Devuni Goonewardene Let’s have a discussion, email any feed

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