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I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings Biographical work by Maya Angelou narrated by Shani The Narrator - Voice Candy Studios
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I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings Biographical work by Maya Angelou narrated by Shani The Narrator - Voice Candy Studios
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I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings Biographical work by Maya Angelou narrated by Shani The Narrator - Voice Candy Studios
Listen to I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings by ShaniTheNarrator MP3 song. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings song from ShaniTheNarrator is available on Audio.com. The duration of song is 06:28. This high-quality MP3 track has 2116.8 kbps bitrate and was uploaded on 26 Oct 2022. Stream and download I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings by ShaniTheNarrator for free on Audio.com – your ultimate destination for MP3 music.
The narrator, a young black girl, attends church on Easter wearing an ugly dress. She fantasizes about looking like a beautiful white girl with long blonde hair and blue eyes. She feels embarrassed by her appearance and dreams of being accepted by others. During the church service, she gets teased and humiliated, causing her to run home and have a moment of relief. The passage highlights the pain of growing up as a black girl in the South and the feeling of displacement. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou 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 Mama 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's 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 blonde, would take the place of the kinky mask that Mama wouldn't let me straighten? My light blue eyes were going to hypnotize them after all the things they said about my daddy must have 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. I just come to tell you it's Easter Day, 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. Suddenly 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 chirped 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. 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.
