Deciphering “Why the Caged Bird Sings”

There are certain memories our mind oppresses so we don’t consciously hate ourselves. There are certain instances from our past we don’t necessarily like to talk about or like to admit occurred. Being human means being flawed, yet society has taught us to regret our mistakes and hate our flaws. Unique is frowned down upon, because uniqueness means different. We don’t like different. It’s basic human nature. We are frightened of the unknown. What would society look like if no one was afraid of there past? A world of no sugar coating, and baby proofing. What would happen if we were just honest with ourselves? If we admitted the in excusable? Explored the un discussable? What is it that we’re so afraid to find out about ourselves?

This is the world you find yourself trapped in when you begin reading, i Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou. Angelou forces you to begin having this conversation within yourself, while she takes you on her own journey through her own past. Angelou reminds her readers that everything isn’t always rainbows and butterflies. Life is messy, dirty, and gritty, and it’s okay to get a little scuffed up along the way.
The story starts with a bang, immediately setting the tone. Maya and her brother shipped away like discarded cargo.

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. (Page 5, Angelou)

We immediately feel sad. Angelou doesn’t give you time to form any other emotion but sadness. She makes the setting and mood very clear. Not soon after Angelou tosses another unwanted emotion into the mix, Disgust. Disgust is seen and discussed as being written with a hard D. i learned this concept from Angelou,

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. (Page 6, Angelou)

We are seeing Disgust in a whole different lighting. We are seeing Disgust in the form of self hatred. When describing herself, Angelou sees herself in only a negative light. Nothing positive is said about her. She sees her common African American features as undesirable, like a disability.

Wouldn’t they be surprised when one day I woke out of my black ugly dream, and my real hair, which was long and blonde, would take 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. (Page 2, Angelou)

This realistic view into the mind of a young girl, with self image issues brought an unwanted flashback. i thought back to a moment in my life where everything seemed greener on the other side. When life seemed like a cruel unfair joke, with me at the receiving end.

I was always big for my age. Now I️ feel the need to clarify, when I️ say big, I️ don’t just mean tall. Tall I️ could have dealt with. Tall and lanky still had promise. There was still hope for the tall and lanky. There was wiggle room for them to still age nicely. When I️ say big I️ meant I️ was big. I️ was stocky, built, and athletic, at an age when all you wanted to feel was dainty. I️ was a nine year old with a women’s body, causing unwanted attention, and stares. I️ was confused and misplaced, wishing I️ had the soft, girlish features of a white girl. I️ said thing to myself, no better then what Maya Angelou said to herself many years earlier. I’ve said things my proud self would never like to admit.

It made me sad to know that at such a young age, I️ had already hit rock bottom. At nine years old my mind should not have been able to form such an ugly image of myself. But that is how society made me feel. Society made me feel ugly for being an overdeveloped young Hispanic, Middle Eastern women. I was treated differently then my peers. My peers being predominately young Caucasian women. They were still seen as cute, and adorable, pretty young girls, aging gracefully. I felt like an ogre amongst them, brooding over them with my strong harsh features. Are you able to see the similarities between my young tainted image of myself and Angelou’s? Angelou forced me to remember, even though I have spent years forcing myself to be proud of who I am and where I came from. I wonder if this is Angelou’s purpose. To force people to remember these ugly distant memories. To understand where they come from, and realize its okay to have these irrational thoughts.

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’s unnecessary insult. (Page 4, Angelou)

For some reason this quote from, I know Why the Caged Bird Sings, really stuck with me. It made me feel something deep inside of me I can’t immediately explain. Displacement is an ugly thing. No one ever wants to feel displaced, yet displacement is a frequent occurrence in American culture. The different are looked down upon, and this is proven with centuries filled with hate, slavery, prejudice and segregation. You think we’d learn from our previous mistakes, but people love to feel inferior. Differences bring out this concept of superiority. One side needs to be deemed as better. In America, this idea of “better”, has always been centered around the “white” man.

I know this whole blog post has felt like a rant of my own thoughts and ideas about Angelou’s novel, but that is essentially the whole point. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, is written in such a way where people can develop there own thoughts and feelings about the information given. What I project onto this novel isn’t going to be the same as someone who has not understood what it has felt like to be born different, and displaced. The purpose of the novel is up for interpretation. But I do believe the network of controlling values presented in the novel are very clear. I haven’t formulated them into the proper equation yet, but I know they are centered around this idea of embarrassment, maybe even shame. Angelou brings up multiple instances of shame in only the first couple of pages. First she brings up her own shame, and then she brings up the shame seen in her Uncle Willie.

He must have tired of being a crippled, as prisoners tire of penitentiary bars and the guilty tire of blame. The high-topped shoes and cane, his uncontrollable muscles and thick tongue, and the looks he suffered of either contempt or pity had simply worn him out, and for one afternoon, one part of an afternoon, he wanted no part of them. (Page 13, Angelou)

This statement is made after Uncle Willie meets strangers at a bar, and deludes from his well known disability. He plops himself up right between the shelves and the counter, and stays put until the strangers leave. For one moment Uncle Willie wanted to feel something other then his disability. Can we really blame him? There were so many moments and instances growing up where I have felt exactly the same. For just one moment I wanted the chance to fit in.

I realize now that all I have really accomplished in this blog post is bring up a lot of “what ifs”. “What if,” this means that, or this. But with a novel as dense as this, it’s hard to formulate your ideas exactly where you want them. Every unfinished idea took me on a different journey to somewhere else. As I continue reading I hope to find some peace with my lingering thoughts, and questions, and hopefully even some answers. But I don’t believe Angelou’s purpose was to answer an actual question. I believe her purpose was to get her readers to start questioning, and to keep questioning, because life rarely provides an actual answer.