I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Obituaries

Maya Angelou was born on April 4, 1928 — an Aries, like me.

In June of 1973, my roommate at Delta Flight Attendant training school in Atlanta, Georgia, was a Black woman from Chicago, Illinois. Our training only lasted six weeks, but our friendship spanned several years.

I don’t remember her name, but I’ll never forget the secret she shared with me.

As a result, I shared my secret with her as well.

The Christmas following our Delta graduation, she gave me Maya Angelou’s book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

Maya Angelou was raped at seven years old — her attacker was dating her mother back then. Maya eventually told her brother about the attack, who subsequently informed their mother. And lucky for Maya, her mother reported it to the police.

Her rapist was found guilty but spent just one day in jail. Immediately after his release, he was found kicked to death.

Some might be appalled by what I think, but in my mind, justice was served as best as it could be.

Upon learning of her rapist’s death, Maya refused to speak for nearly five years, thinking that her saying his name had killed him. Oh, if it were only true for all of us.

In the five years that she was intentionally mute, she depended solely on her listening and observing skills, to which I can relate.

Growing up in Bridgeport, Connecticut, my Franco-American grandmother taught me that kids are to be seen but never heard. When my grandmother didn’t want me to know what she was saying, she spoke to my mother and great-grandmother in French.

As a result, I became adept at listening, observing, and translating conversational French into English.

It was Angelou’s teacher, Bertha Flowers, who helped her regain her voice, and the rest is poetic history.

Over the years, Angelou’s words have been an enormous comfort and continue to resonate deep within me.

Here are some of my favorite words Maya Angelou taught me to live by:

“There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you.”

“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song.”

“The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.”

“Each time a woman stands up for herself, without knowing it possibly, without claiming it, she stands up for all women.”

“Every storm runs out of rain.”

“Hate: It has caused a lot of problems in the world but has not solved one yet.”

“You may shoot me with your words; you may cut me with your eyes; you may kill me with your hatefulness; but still, like air; I’ll rise.”

“The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”

“You may not control all the events that happen to you but you can decide not to be reduced by them.”

“It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength.”

“We allow our ignorance to prevail upon us and make us think we can survive alone, alone in patches, alone in groups, alone in races, even alone in genders.”

“I learned a long time ago, the wisest thing I can do is be on my own side.”

“My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.”

“I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life’s a bitch. You’ve got to go out and kick ass.”

“If you’re always trying to be normal, you will never know how amazing you can be.”

“When you know you are of worth — not asking it but knowing it — you walk into a room with a particular power.”

“If you’re going to live, leave a legacy. Make a mark on the world that can’t be erased.”

“The idea of overcoming is always fascinating to me. It’s fascinating because few of us realize how much energy we have expended just to be here today. I don’t think we give ourselves enough credit for the overcoming.”

“I sustain myself with the love of family.”

“Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between.”

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

“Develop enough courage so that you can stand up for yourself and then stand up for somebody else.”

“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…”

“I am a Woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal Woman, that’s me.”

The Tale as Old as Time

Me Too

I had a boatload of to-do items on my list for this past Monday, March 20:

Email an assignment to my ColdFusion tech guy, finish decoupaging an old end table, add an article on my website Worldpress.org, post another chapter of My Stolen Diaries on my blog, The Teri Tome, write an inscription in a Maya Angelou book I was mailing to my friend Kathy, swing by the post office to drop off two packages before getting a mammogram/sonogram, and then dinner at 7:15 with a friend.

Whew. It was going to be a busy day.

But then, at 3:30 am, I woke up drenched in dread and sweat after interrupting an awful dream — about him. As I tossed and turned, unable to will myself back to sleep, I asked my dead grandmother to send me a sign to help me get through the day.

I was sleepless in New York, so I went down to my desk, wrote the inscription below, and taped it into the front pages of Maya Angelou’s poetry book titled Phenomenal Woman:

For Kathy,

I’d like to think that, like Maya Angelou,
sharing some, but not yet all, of my truth
has helped me to rise above insecurity,
abandonment, guilt, abuse, regret, shame,
remorse, sadness, depression, and who
knows what else. And yet I have somehow
managed to rise.

I have often described myself as a bird with
a broken wing — maybe two. A fragile bird
afraid to sing and unable to fly.

Not because of my impoverished, chaotic
upbringing. But because my metaphorical
cage was and still is, my inability to say his
name — not through song but through words.

I still carry deep remorse for many things
that happened or didn’t happen in my past.
Even the tiniest regret leaves me wondering
how I missed the things worth stopping for.

Like you, Kathy. How sad we didn’t get to
know each other very well at Brevard. I
am convinced that we would have been
great friends.

But I have learned through my sometimes
painful, often weary, yet wondrous seventy
years that it is never too late to surround
myself with brave, phenomenal women.

A phenomenal woman, that’s you.
~Teri 3/20/23

By the time I finished writing, taping, and packaging, it was time for a shower, followed by a strong cup of coffee and the New York Times. To say I was emotionally spent would be putting it mildly.

But then there it was. The sign.

In the New York Times, there was an article about filmmaker Jennifer Fox (my grandmother’s last name), who, after a half-century of refusing to name her sexual abuser, had finally come forward with his name almost two years after his death. She identified him as Ted Nash, a two-time Olympic medalist in rowing — a legend in his sport.

In 2018, Fox wrote and directed The Tale, an acclaimed American drama about her pieced-together memories of sexual abuse when she was 13, at the hands of an older man, but she never revealed his identity.

Fox recently told the New York Times that she finally said his name because she wanted abusers to know that even death wouldn’t spare them from being found out.

The last paragraph in the article was a quote from Fox, and it gave me the chill bumps:

“The adult part of me wants to move on, but that child in me, she wants to face him and get it over with and name him. There was a part of me saying, I will not let you rest until you name him.”

My Mammy

Family & Relationships


Today marks forty years since I lost my precious grandmother.

My grandma, who I called Mammy (pronounced May-Me), was my everything.

My mom had me at a very young age, so she had difficulty caring for me. Thank goodness for my grandmother, who so lovingly stepped in and took over for her.

As I got older, I understood the importance of Mammy and was very thankful that she raised me to be a strong, courageous, independent young lady.

She also taught me how to cook, clean, and bake. But most of all, she taught me how to be a loving mother and grandmother.

Everything I am is because of Mammy. And even though she was everything my mom couldn’t be, that was okay for me. Because I knew that my mom was doing her best, and as long as I had Mammy, I felt safe.

The only downside to being raised by my grandmother was that I never knew what it was like to have a traditional “mom.”

My grandma raised me as best she could, although there were always unsaid boundaries because she didn’t want to hurt my mother’s feelings or cut her out as a mom.

There were many occasions when I was told to lie and tell people that Mammy was my mother so as not to be poorly judged.

And then there were many times I freely lied — and answered “yes” when asked if Mammy was my mother. I learned early on that people could be cruel and unfairly judgmental regarding my untraditional family.

Of course, I always knew who my mother was, but with each leaving space for the other to step in, Mammy and my mom unintentionally left a lot of the parenting void up to me to fill in and figure out on my own.

And being from a “broken home” was a permanent stain, and as they say in Catholic speak, my cross to bear.

Let’s just say that I didn’t garner any trust points with the moms and dads of my friends, as they were wary of me and my unorthodox family unit.

For as long as I can remember, I have been a creative writer, voracious reader, and deep thinker.

One of my most treasured books was my children’s dictionary. I can still see its bright yellow cover — the title displayed in a rainbow of primary-colored letters. I poured through the pages of my dictionary while most other kids were reading about magical and imaginary beings and lands.

There are so many words that I can still recall being used to describe me and my female dynasty as a kid.

If nothing else, I was a curious, practical child, so for every word spoken that I didn’t understand, I would look up. Here are a few I can still recall coming up a lot back then.

Broken. The meaning of “broken” is having been fractured or damaged and no longer in one piece or in working order. That’s not how I remember my “family” of women: My mom, grandmother, and great-grandmother were my pillars. Another word that I learned very young in life.

Pillars. A tall vertical structure of stone, wood, or metal used to support a building or as an ornament or monument. Or, in my case, they were flesh and bone pillars used to support and lift me up.

Awkward. Causing difficulty, embarrassment, or inconvenience. There was nothing awkward or embarrassing about me or the three women in my life, although sadly, my mother often considered me so. I sometimes wonder what she thinks of me now or if she thinks about me at all. I wish I could call and ask her, but that ship sailed a long time ago.

Even though Mammy has been gone for 40 years today, her memory still brings tears to my eyes, and I think about her every single day.

Rest in peace, Mammy. I miss you terribly, and I sure hope we meet again.

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 17: Somebody Has to Go

Teri's Novelog — My Stolen Diaries, , , ,

 

CHAPTER 17

SOMEBODY HAS TO GO

November 1964

Adam is getting sicker and weaker by the day, and Mem spends all her free time caring for him. Mem says Adam is on his last legs, which I think is a weird thing to say because poor Adam had both his legs amputated a while back. He’s been so ill that Mem doesn’t want me there much anymore, so I’m back to my routine of going to Steve’s Market with Rib every day after school.

Steve refuses to let up on Adam, and it has caused a lot of trouble with Mem. I keep reminding Steve that Adam is almost dead and beg him not to mess things up. I warned Steve that giving Mem a hard time over a dying man was not the best way to win her over. But Steve won’t shut up about Adam and keeps accusing Mem of being ungrateful and selfish.

I sometimes wonder if Adam is also trying to cause trouble. Since I’ve been spending more time with Steve, Adam has been asking Mem to see me on a more regular basis.

Adam has a fancy baby grand piano, and he recently told Mem that he wanted to pay someone to come over to his house and teach me how to play. I think that’s Adam’s way of getting closer to Mem.

Adam also has a fancy car that he told Mem she could borrow anytime. Mem studied hard and got her driver’s license, so now we don’t have to walk or take the bus everywhere we need to go.

Two weekends ago, Mem and I stayed overnight at Adam’s house, which according to Mem, made Steve mad as a hornet. Adam hired a piano teacher, as he promised, and I spent the entire weekend learning how to play Minuet in G Major by Bach.

Mem was in the bath when Steve stopped by our apartment that Sunday night with some porterhouse steaks. He demanded to know whose car was in front of the apartment. I told him it was Adam’s car and warned Steve to keep his anger about Adam to himself or else.

“Or else what?” he asked me. I ran my right hand across my throat, which I hoped he took as a sign to stop his nonsense. Doesn’t Steve see he’s pushing Mem away? I asked him how he could be jealous of a man with no legs, who’s on his last legs, but he just shrugged.

The more Steve gives Mem a hard time, the more time Mem spends with Adam, which is fine with me because I’ve been learning piano, and according to my piano teacher, I’m a natural!

Last night Steve told Mem he thought she cared more about Adam than she cared about him. Then Steve said to her that “Somebody has to go.” Mem answered that she wanted to take a break from their relationship and that the somebody that had to go was him. Steve can’t say I didn’t warn him.

And according to Mom, not only will we have to go grocery shopping somewhere else, but without Steve, we won’t be eating steak any time soon.

Click here for Chapter 18: The Secret Is Out