Letter to My Daughter by Maya Angelou Read Free Book Online

courage. Then the picture of the segregated movie house in my small town in Arkansas floated into my consciousness.
    Each time my brother and I had gone to a picture show, we had to brave the hostile stares of white adults, and once gaining the box office, we paid our money and were rudely thumbed toward a rickety outdoor staircase which led to the balcony (called a buzzard’s roost) restricted to black customers.
    There we sat, knees to chin, in the cramped space, our feet crunching discarded candy wrappers and other debris on the floor. We perched there and studied how to act when we grew up and became beautiful and rich and white.
    Years had passed and now I sat in the hotel’s glittery ballroom and watched as movie star after movie star rose to pay tribute to Mr. Wyler. Old memories had taken me back to days of southern humiliation. When my name was called, every word of my carefully memorized introduction fled from my mind, and I stood at the microphone looking into the famous faces, furious that they had been, even unwittingly, the agents of my old embarrassments. Anger thickened my tongue and slowed my brain. Only by exercising phenomenal control did I restrain myself from shouting, “I hate you. I hate you all. I hate you for your power and fame, and health and money, and acceptance.” I think I was afraid that, if I opened my mouth I would blurt out the truth “I love you because I love everything you’ve got and everything you are.” I stood mute before the famed audience. After a few attempts to speak I mumbled a few words and walked out of the room.
    There was a rumor which was untrue that drugs had made me blank out. Upon later reflection of the painful incident, I am remembering what Arkansas gave me. I came to understand that I can never forget where I came from. My soul should always look back and wonder at the mountains I had climbed and the rivers I had forged and the challenges which still await down the road. I am strengthened by that knowledge.

In Self-Defense
    Recently I had an appointment with four television producers who wanted my permission to produce a short story I had written.
    As often happens, the leader of the group showed herself immediately. There was no question as to who was the boss. The woman was small, with a quick smile and a high-pitched voice. She met each statement I made with a sarcastic rejoinder. Not caustic enough for me to call her down but pointed enough for me to realize she meant to put me in my place, which was obviously somewhere beneath her.
    I said, “I’m glad we are meeting in this restaurant, it is one of my favorites.”
    She said, “I have not been here for years but I remember the last time the atmosphere was so boring we could have been in an old lady’s home.”
    She looked around, smirked, and said, “It does not seem as if it has gotten any better.”
    After she had responded sarcastically to my statements three times, I asked, “Why are you doing that?”
    She answered in a sweet innocent voice, “What, what am I doing?”
    I said, “You are timidly attacking me.”
    She laughed and said, “Oh no, I was just showing you that you cannot be right about everything all the time. Anyway I like to have a little word warfare going on. It sharpens the wit, and I am brutally frank.”
    I kept my hands in my lap and brought my chin to my chest. I ordered myself to be kind.
    I asked the producer, “Word warfare? Do you really want to call me out into the arena for word warfare?”
    And she said boldly, “Yes, I do, yes, I do, yes, I do.”
    “No, I do not, but let us speak about the business which brought us together. Your corporation wanted my permission to explore my short story as a vehicle for television. I must tell you ‘No,’ I will not agree.”
    She said, “We have not even made our offer to you.”
    I told her, “That does not matter. I know very well that you would not furnish me a peaceful or pleasant environment in which to work. That