I was twelve years old when I first read the words of Maya Angelou. I was too young. I pretended, often, to know what words like iridescent and palpable meant. I pretended to understand her prose, her rhythm, her voice. I pretended until I understood.
In most American high schools, you're required to read I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, and while most kids looked online for the summary, I read every page twice. I soaked up the knowledge, the pain, the humor. She was so funny in that book. She could talk about sadness and make me smile. That's because Maya Angelou wasn't perfect, didn't want to be perfect, and probably wouldn't like you if you were perfect. She was the real deal. She was a woman.
Three days ago I sobbed myself to sleep because for the first time in a long time I was afraid to be a woman. A guy with a gun shot seven girls because they had opinions, attitudes, personalities... souls. Because they were more than their body parts. He instilled the notion that sometimes you can do everything right, and there is still a reason to be afraid. And I was.
And as I thought about my fear, or my guilt if it can even be called that, I though about Maya. I thought about Hilary. I thought about Susan B. and Amelia and Harriet and women that I studied and dreamt about. Women that I feel I know. I feel I'm connected to. And that connection no longer makes me afraid. When I think of my mother, my aunts, my best friend, my sources of strength that have seen the darkest of days and yet remain intact... I have realized in the past few days that the strongest I've ever felt is when I am surrounded by strength. And there is no one stronger than a woman. (I mean, childbirth. Let's talk about that for a second.)
So. After a pretty sad week of thinking of all the times I've been told to protect my self rather than have boys be told to, you know, not be sucky people... I've come to the conclusion (not really, my mind will change thirteen more times today) that while I cannot predict if the man walking down the street is going to pass by or mug me (again)... I know that I am solid.
I will cry at every episode of Gilmore Girls. I think Barack Obama's smile won his election, the first time. I eat more chocolate than is legal. I pretend to be on the phone when I think someone is about to come up and talk to me at bus stops. I think shaving your legs in the winter is stupidity personified. Sports bras. I don't own any kitchen appliances. And every summer instead of buying shorts I cut the pants I've worn all winter into shorts. I'm a woman. I'm so proud to be a woman. And you should be proud to be around a woman, because she will get shit done.
That's what Maya taught me. There is going to be chaos. There is going to be grief. Despair. Heartache with heartbreak. Years will go by and you'll realize you haven't moved. And then one day the fog lifts, you make a plan, and in the way only a woman will understand... you clean up your mess and you get shit done. It's just that simple.
I will miss Maya. I will miss her words, which have made the world a better place.
I finally understand your prose (well, kinda) and I absolutely hear your voice as you say:
I am a woman, phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, that's me.
Sleep well.
Cheers.
