Interview: Maya Angelou, Author Of 'Mom & Me & Mom' Maya Angelou spent much of her childhood being raised by her grandmother in Arkansas, but as a young teenager, she returned to live with her mother, Vivian Baxter. Angelou's Mom & Me & Mom looks back on the long process of reconciliation with the woman who sent her away.

In A New Memoir, Maya Angelou Recalls How A 'Lady' Became 'Mom'

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The woman you're about to hear from next has been in front of audiences around the country and around the world, more times than she could begin to count.

MAYA ANGELOU: Usually when people introduce me, they can go for...


ANGELOU: ...a half-hour and makes me feel as if I'm at my own weight.


ANGELOU: You know, and then she - and then in 1951, she and then, you know. But the truth is I'm Maya Angelou, whatever that means to whomever it means. Because my mother loved me and my grandmother loved me and my brother loved me, and they all told me I could do whatever I wanted to do.

MARTIN: Dr. Maya Angelou has lived an extraordinary life, the author of dozens of books, a professor, poet and recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom. But Angelou says none of it would have been possible without the support of a woman named Vivian Baxter, her mother. Angelou's new memoir focuses on that relationship. It's called "Mom and Me and Mom."

When I spoke recently with Dr. Angelou, we started out talking about her childhood and a terrible event that left her mute for several years.

ANGELOU: At one time in my life, from the time I was seven until I was about 13, I didn't speak. I only spoke to my brother. The reason I didn't speak, I had been molested and I told the name of the molester to my brother who told it to the family. The man was put in jail for one day and night and released. And about three days later. the police came over to my mother's mother's house, and told her that the man had been found dead, and it seemed he had been kicked to death.

They made that pronouncement in my earshot, and I thought my voice killed the man. And so it's better not to speak. So for six years I didn't speak.

I was sent back to my father's mother who was raising me in Arkansas. And my grandmother said to me: Sister, Mama don't care what these people say that you must be an idiot or you must be a moron because you can't speak - Mama don't care. Mama know when you and the Good Lord get ready, Sister, you're going to teach all over this world.

MARTIN: In your early childhood you were raised by your grandmother. Eventually you found your way back to your birthmother.

ANGELOU: Yes, I did.

MARTIN: That was a tough reunion. In the beginning, you didn't want to call her mother. You called her...


MARTIN: ...Lady.


MARTIN: Can you explain why?

ANGELOU: Yes. And, well, she look like a mother to me. She didn't remind me of my grandmother, who we called Mama. And she wore lipstick and she had record players and she played music, loudly and danced in the middle of the dining room floor. She said after a few weeks: You're going to have to address me. And she asked: What would you like to call me?

I said: I'd like to call you Lady because you're very beautiful and you sound like a lady. She said: All right, I'll be Lady, so everyone must address me as Lady from now on.


ANGELOU: So all sorts of people know her only as Lady. But after a few years, she won me. She won me over because she was kind. And then she was also funny. So I liked all that. And she just won me over. And then I heard myself calling her Mother, and before I knew it I was calling her Mom.

MARTIN: She was such a support for you.

ANGELOU: Yes, she was.

MARTIN: But you do include a scene in the book that it's powerful and it's difficult. It's when you're a young girl, I think you're still in high school, you're growing up in San Francisco. You stay out very late with friends. You know you're going to get in trouble. But when you go home, you're not just in trouble - she wallops you.

ANGELOU: I know. She hit me. She had a handful of keys - about 20 keys on a chain. And I came through the door. Before I could say anything she hit me with her fist. My stepfather came down from upstairs to see what was happening. She was still cursing like a drunk seaman. And then my brother came down and said: We're leaving here.

Then my mother asked: Where the hmmp do you think you're going? He said: We're leaving this house. No one beats up my baby sister. And she said: Please come in the kitchen. Let me speak to you. Please come. Please come. She took a cloth off the rack and put it down on the floor, then she knelt on the cloth and she prayed to God to forgive her. Then she prayed to me. And she cried so piteously.

She said, I, I, I just had come down the steps, had gone to your room and you weren't in, and its 2:30 or 3 o'clock in the morning. And I thought of what that man did to you in St. Louis when you were a little girl, seven years old, and I thought maybe someone was taking advantage of you, and I was about crazy.

And then I came down the steps and just then you pushed open the door, with a big smile on your face. She said: I hit you before I thought of it. Please forgive me. I forgave her immediately.

MARTIN: What changed in your relationship as a result of that event?

ANGELOU: Well, it was so gradual that they became woven into the psyche which is the fabric of my psyche. The large change is, I remember, and I can say I was the first black person to be on the streetcars of San Francisco, a conductorette. And my mother had asked me: What would you like to do this semester? You're ahead of your class, what would you like to do? You have to work.

So I said: I'd like to be a streetcar conductor. She said: All right, go get the job.

MARTIN: And on your first day, your mom decided that she would drive you before dawn.

ANGELOU: She drove me as long as I kept the job, which was a few months. And she'd drive right behind the streetcar until daylight. And at daylight, she'd honk her horn and blow me a kiss.

MARTIN: We should also point out, a big reason why she was following you in those early daylight hours - she had a gun along with her. She wanted to protect you.

ANGELOU: Absolutely. I told her that's what you were - you were my great protection. She said I was more than that. You were mine, too. I can't describe her except that she gave off an energy. She was short. I mean, she was 5-5. I'm 6 foot.


ANGELOU: She used to move a lot, like shaking. And I'd say, Why do you move like that? She'd say: My motor is running.


MARTIN: Did you get that from her? Do you move a lot? Do you got to move your body?

ANGELOU: Oh, yes. Well, I don't move that way. But I was a dancer for many years. I was a premier dancer with "Porgy and Bess," the opera. And I taught dance some, in different places.

MARTIN: Many people might not know that about you. You did have a dance career. You started out as a dancer, almost is it fair to say it was kind of a strip club?

ANGELOU: Well, I did work in a strip club, but I didn't strip. I danced and I became very popular. And the band...


ANGELOU: The band was so used to playing for the strippers and they just...

(Singing) Tea for two and two for tea and da...

And they just didn't even look anymore - they were so bored and blase.


ANGELOU: But then I came and I said do "Caravan."

(Singing) Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da...

And all that and I'd hit the floor and dance my skin off, almost. And I moved from a strip joint to a cabaret.

MARTIN: When did you find your voice as a writer?

ANGELOU: Well, I liked to write from the time I was about 12 or 13. I loved to read. And since I only spoke to my brother, I would write down my thoughts. And I think I wrote some of the worst poetry west of the Rockies. But by the time I was in my 20's, I found myself writing little essays and more poetry - writing at writing.

MARTIN: Do you remember any of your very early poems, maybe something you wish you hadn't written?

ANGELOU: No, oh. A poet does not see the writing on the wall. She sees the wall, that's all. But for tomorrow goes her clarion call, for others do not see the wall. Yes, that's mine.


ANGELOU: My lord.

MARTIN: When did you write that?

ANGELOU: About 70 years ago.


ANGELOU: Amazing.

MARTIN: What happens in your day if you find yourself with one or two sacred hours of free time? What does Dr. Maya Angelou do?

ANGELOU: Mmm, mmm. That's a wonderful question because it would depend on what kind of day it is. If it's a good spring or summer day, I'd probably be in my garden. Or I'd be maybe cooking something that catches my fancy. One thing that's nice to cook are whipped cream puffs.


ANGELOU: They're so easy, and yet people think they're so difficult. And they're so complimentary...

MARTIN: Wow, it sounds hard to me.


ANGELOU: No, I promise you. When you see how easy it is and delicious they can be, make it for your beloved. Make it for your family - someone in the family - then someone you really want to impress. Just for their: Oh, yeah. I have it - ah-ha-ha...

MARTIN: Oh - this old thing - this batch of cream puffs.


ANGELOU: Oh, this and creme eclairs.

MARTIN: At this point in your life, do you think about the word legacy?

ANGELOU: Well, I don't. I'm not ready to do that yet. Unless the creator's ready for me, I'm not going anywhere. So, and instead of having 33 books or whatever they are, I might have 40.

I just really want to say this. I dedicate this book to my son, Guy Bailey Johnson, who's the bravest, most courageous and most generous man I've ever known.

MARTIN: Dr. Maya Angelou, her new memoire is called "Mom and Me and Mom."

Dr. Angelou, thank you so much. It's just been a pleasure.

ANGELOU: Thank you very, very much.


MARTIN: This is WEEKEND EDITION from NPR News. I'm Rachel Martin.


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