{"product_id":"letter-to-my-daughter-isbn-9780812980035","title":"Letter to My Daughter","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • Maya  Angelou shares her path to living well and with meaning in this  absorbing book of personal essays.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Dedicated to the daughter she never had but sees all around her, \u003ci\u003eLetter to My Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e transcends genres and categories: guidebook, memoir, poetry, and pure delight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Here in short spellbinding essays are glimpses of the tumultuous life  that led Angelou to an exalted place in American letters and taught her lessons in  compassion and fortitude: how she was brought up by her indomitable grandmother in  segregated Arkansas, taken in at thirteen by her more worldly and less religious  mother, and grew to be an awkward, six-foot-tall teenager whose first experience  of loveless sex paradoxically left her with her greatest gift, a son.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Whether she  is recalling such lost friends as Coretta Scott King and Ossie Davis, extolling honesty,  decrying vulgarity, explaining why becoming a Christian is a “lifelong endeavor,”  or simply singing the praises of a meal of red rice–Maya Angelou writes from the  heart to millions of women she considers her extended family. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Like the rest of  her remarkable work, \u003ci\u003eLetter to My Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e entertains and teaches; it is a book to  cherish, savor, re-read, and share.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“I gave birth to one child, a son, but I  have thousands of daughters. You are Black and White, Jewish and Muslim, Asian, Spanish  speaking, Native Americans and Aleut. You are fat and thin and pretty and plain,  gay and straight, educated and unlettered, and I am speaking to you all. Here is  my offering to you.”—from \u003ci\u003eLetter to My Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“It’s a book to give to one’s daughter, mother, son or father, but definitely one to be read and savored.”—\u003ci\u003eBaltimore Sun\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Sound advice, vivid memory and strong opinion . . . What is clear is that [Maya] Angelou is, all these years later, still a charmer, still speaking her mind.”—\u003ci\u003eWashington Post Book World\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A slim volume packed with nourishing nuggets of wisdom . . . Overarching each brief chapter is the vital energy of a woman taking life’s measure with every step.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Written in Angelou’s beautiful, poetic style, the essays feel like warm advice from a beloved aunt or grandmother, whose wisdom you know was earned.”—\u003ci\u003eFredericksburg Free Lance\u003c\/i\u003e—Star\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Spellbinding . . . Angelou delivers with her signature passion and fire. . . . Each [essay] delivers a powerful message.”—\u003ci\u003eRocky Mountain News\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eMaya Angelou\u003c\/b\u003e was raised in Stamps, Arkansas. In addition to her bestselling autobiographies, including \u003ci\u003eI Know Why the Caged Bird Sings\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Heart of a Woman,\u003c\/i\u003e she wrote numerous volumes of poetry, among them \u003ci\u003ePhenomenal Woman, And Still I Rise, On the Pulse of Morning,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMother\u003c\/i\u003e. Maya Angelou died in 2014.1   \u003cbr\u003eHome\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was born in St. Louis, Missouri, but from the age of three I grew up in Stamps, Arkansas, with my paternal grandmother, Annie Henderson, and my father’s brother, Uncle Willie, and my only sibling, my brother, Bailey. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt thirteen I joined my mother in San Francisco. Later I studied in New York City. Throughout the years I have lived in Paris, Cairo, West Africa, and all over the United States. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThose are facts, but facts, to a child, are merely words to memorize, “My name is Johnny Thomas. My address is 220 Center Street.” All facts, which have little to do with the child’s truth. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy real growing up world, in Stamps, was a continual struggle against a condition of surrender. Surrender first to the grown up human beings who I saw every day, all black and all very, very large. Then submission to the idea that black people were inferior to white people, who I saw rarely. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithout knowing why exactly, I did not believe that I was inferior to anyone except maybe my brother. I knew I was smart, but I also knew that Bailey was smarter, maybe because he reminded me often and even suggested that maybe he was the smartest person in the world. He came to that decision when he was nine years old. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe South, in general, and Stamps, Arkansas, in particular had had hundreds of years’ experience in demoting even large adult blacks to psychological dwarfs. Poor white children had the license to address lauded and older blacks by their first names or by any names they could create. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThomas Wolfe warned in the title of America’s great novel that “You Can’t Go Home Again.” I enjoyed the book but I never agreed with the title. I believe that one can never leave home. I believe that one carries the shadows, the dreams, the fears and dragons of home under one’s skin, at the extreme corners of ones eyes and possibly in the gristle of the earlobe. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHome is that youthful region where a child is the only real living inhabitant. Parents, siblings, and neighbors, are mysterious apparitions, who come, go, and do strange unfathomable things in and around the child, the region’s only enfranchised citizen. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGeography, as such, has little meaning to the child observer. If one grows up in the Southwest, the desert and open skies are natural. New York, with the elevators and subway rumble and millions of people, and Southeast Florida with its palm trees and sun and beaches are to the children of those regions, the ways the outer world are, has been, and will always be. Since the child cannot control that environment, she has to find her own place, a region where only she lives and no one else can enter. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am convinced that most people do not grow up. We find parking spaces and honor our credit cards. We marry and dare to have children and call that growing up. I think what we do is mostly grow old. We carry accumulation of years in our bodies and on our faces, but generally our real selves, the children inside, are still innocent and shy as magnolias. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe may act sophisticated and worldly but I believe we feel safest when we go inside ourselves and find home, a place where we belong and maybe the only place we really do.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2   \u003cbr\u003ePhilanthropy \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo write about giving to a person who is naturally generous reminds me of a preacher passionately preaching to the already committed choir. I am encouraged to write on because I remember that from time to time, the choir does need to be uplifted and thanked for its commitment. Those voices need to be encouraged to sing again and again, with even more emotion. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach single American giver keeps alive the American Cancer Society, the Red Cross, Salvation Army, Goodwill, Sickle Cell Anemia, American Jewish Society, NAACP, and the Urban League. The list continues to include church foundations, synagogue programs, Muslim Temple associations, Buddhist shrines, groups, officials, and city and social clubs. However, the largest sums of money come from philanthropists. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe word philanthropy was taken from the two Greek words, philo—lover of; and anthro—mankind. So, philanthropists are lovers of humanity. They build imposing edifices for people to work in and to play in. They give huge sums of money to support organizations which offer better health and education to the society. They are the principal patrons of the arts. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mention of philanthropy elicits smiles, followed by the sensation of receiving unexpected good fortune from a generous but faceless source. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere are those who would like to see themselves as philanthropists. Philanthropists often are represented by committees and delegations. They are disconnected from the recipients of their generosity. I am not a member of that gathering. Rather I like to think of myself as charitable. The charitable say in effect, “I seem to have more than I need and you seem to have less than you need. I would like to share my excess with you.” Fine, if my excess is tangible, money or goods, and fine if not, for I learned that to be charitable with gestures and words can bring enormous joy and repair injured feelings. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy paternal grandmother who raised me had a remarkable influence on how I saw the world and how I reckoned my place in it. She was the picture of dignity. She spoke softly and walked slowly, with her hands behind her back, fingers laced together. I imitated her so successfully that neighbors called me her shadow. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sister Henderson, I see you got your shadow with you again.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrandmother would look at me and smile. “Well, I guess you’re right. If I stop, she stops. If I go, she goes.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I was thirteen, my grandmother took me back to California to join my mother, and she returned immediately to Arkansas. The California house was a world away from that little home in which I grew up in Arkansas. My mother wore her straight hair in a severe stylish bob. My grandmother didn’t believe in hot curling women’s hair, so I had grown up with a braided natural. Grandmother turned our radio on to listen to the news, religious music, Gang Busters, and The Lone Ranger. In California my mother wore lipstick and rouge and played loud blues music and jazz on a record player. Her house was full of people who laughed a lot and talked loudly. I definitely did not belong. I walked around in that worldly atmosphere, with my hands clasped behind my back, my hair pulled back in a tight braid, humming a Christian song. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy mother watched me for about two weeks. Then we had what was to become familiar as, “a sit down talk to.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said, “Maya, you disapprove of me because I am not like your grandmother. That’s true. I am not. But I am your mother and I am working some part of my anatomy off to buy you good clothes and give you well-prepared food and keep this roof over your head. When you go to school, the teacher will smile at you and you will smile back. Other students you don’t even know will smile and you will smile. But on the other hand, I am your mother. I tell you what I want you to do. If you can force one smile on your face for strangers, do it for me. I promise you I will appreciate it.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe put her hand on my cheek and smiled. “Come on baby, smile for mother. Come on.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe made a funny face and against my wishes, I smiled. She kissed me on the lips and started to cry. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s the first time I have seen you smile. It is a beautiful smile, Mother’s beautiful daughter can smile.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had never been called beautiful and no one in my memory had ever called me daughter. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat day, I learned that I could be a giver by simply bringing a smile to another person. The ensuing years have taught me that a kind word, a vote of support is a charitable gift. I can move over and make another place for someone. I can turn my music up if it pleases, or down if it is annoying. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI may never be known as a philanthropist, but I certainly am a lover of mankind, and I will give freely of my resources. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am happy to describe myself as charitable.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3   \u003cbr\u003eRevelations \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had to be the days of Revelations. The days John the revelator prophesied. The earth shuddered as trains thundered up and down in its black belly. Private cars, taxis, buses, surface trains, trucks, delivery vans, cement mixers, delivery carts, bicycles, and skates occupied the air with honks, toots, roars, thuds, screams, and whistles, until the very air seemed thick and lumpy like bad gravy. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeople from everywhere, speaking every known language had come to town to watch the end and the beginning of the world. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wanted to forget about the enormity of the day so, I went to the Fillmore Street 5 \u0026amp; Dime store. It was an acre wide shop where dreams hung on plastic stands. I had walked up and down its aisles a thousand times over. I knew its seductive magic. From the nylon slips with cardboard tits to the cosmetic counter where lipsticks and nail polish were pink and red and green and blue fruits fallen from a rainbow tree. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was the city, when I was sixteen and brand-new like daybreak. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe day was so important I could hardly breathe. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA boy who lived up the street from me had been asking me to be intimate with him. I had refused for months. He was not my boyfriend. We were not even dating. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was during that time that I noticed my body’s betrayal. My voice became deep and husky, and my naked image in the mirror gave no intimations that it would ever become feminine and curvy. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was already six feet tall and had no breasts. I thought maybe if I had sex my recalcitrant body would grow up and behave as it was supposed to behave. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat morning the boy had telephoned and I told him yes. He gave me an address and said he would meet me there at 8:00 o’clock. I said yes. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA friend had lent him his apartment. From the moment I saw him at the door I knew I had made the wrong choice. There were no endearments spoken, no warm caresses shared. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe showed me to a bedroom, where we both undressed. The fumbling engagement lasted fifteen minutes, and I had my clothes on and was at the front door. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t remember if we said goodbye. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI do remember walking down the street, wondering was that all there was and how much I wanted a long soaking bath. I did get the bath and that was not all there was. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNine months later, I had a beautiful baby boy. The birth of my son caused me to develop enough courage to invent my life. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI learned to love my son without wanting to possess him and I learned how to teach him to teach himself. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToday, over forty years later, when I look at him and see the wonderful man he has become, the loving husband and father, the good poet and fine novelist, the responsible citizen and the world’s greatest son, I thank the Creator that he was given to me. The Revelation is that day, so long ago, was the greatest day of my life—Hallelujah!   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e4   \u003cbr\u003eGiving Birth \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy brother Bailey told me to keep my pregnancy a secret from my mother. He said she would take me out of school. I was very close to graduating. Bailey said I had to have a high school diploma before mother returned to San Francisco from the nightclub she and her husband owned in Nome, Alaska. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI received my diploma on VJ day which was also my step-father’s birthday. He had patted me on the shoulder that morning and said, “You are growing up and you are becoming a fine young woman.” I thought to myself I should, I am eight months and one week pregnant. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter a salutary dinner celebrating his birthday, my graduation, and a national victory, I left a note on his pillow saying, “Dad, I am sorry to bring disgrace to the family, but I have to tell you that I am pregnant.” I didn’t sleep that night. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI heard my dad go to his room about 3:00 a.m. When he didn’t knock on my door immediately, I puzzled over whether he had seen and read the note. There would be no sleep for me that night. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt 8:30 in the morning he spoke at my door. He said, “Baby, come down and have coffee with me, by the way—I got your note.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sound of him walking away was not nearly as loud as the sound of my heart racing. Downstairs at the table he said, “I’m going to call your mother. How far along are you?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “I have three weeks.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe smiled. “I’m sure your mother will be here today.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNervous and frightened are not words which even barely describe how I was feeling. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore nightfall my pretty little mother walked into the house. She gave me a kiss then looked at me. “You’re more than any three weeks pregnant.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “No ma’am, I’m eight months and one week pregnant.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe asked, “Who is the boy?” I told her. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe asked, “Do you love him?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “No.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Does he love you?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “No, he’s the only person with whom I had sex and we were together only one time.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy mother said, “There is no reason to ruin three lives; our family is going to have a wonderful baby.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was a registered nurse so when I began labor she shaved me, powdered me and took me to the hospital. The doctor had not arrived. Mother introduced herself to the nurses and said as a nurse herself, she was going to help with the delivery. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe crawled up on the delivery table with me and had me bend my legs. She put her shoulder against my knee and told me dirty stories. When the pains came she told me the punch line of the stories and as I laughed, she told me, “Bear down.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the baby started coming, my little mother jumped off the table and seeing him emerge, she shouted, “Here he comes and he has black hair.” I wondered what color she thought he might have. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the baby was delivered, my mother caught him. She and the other nurses cleaned him, wrapped him in a blanket and she brought him to me. “Here my baby, here’s your beautiful baby.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy dad said when she returned home, she was so tired, she looked as if she had given birth to quintuplets. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was so proud of her grandson and proud of me. I never had to spend one minute regretting giving birth to a child who had a devoted family led by a fearless, doting, and glorious grandmother. So I became proud of myself.New York Times bestseller","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300811591909,"sku":"NP9780812980035","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812980035.jpg?v=1767731369","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/letter-to-my-daughter-isbn-9780812980035","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}