This week’s choice marks Black History Month in the United States (the UK’s Black History Month is October) by choosing one of America’s best-known poets, Maya Angelou and her poem “Still I Rise”.
Out of the huts of history’s shame
Maya Angelou (1928—2014)
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Poem 312. Still I Rise
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
This is a tremendous poem that expresses defiance and hope in the face of the lies, prejudice and violence that have subjugated and suppressed black people across the world for so long, and which still linger both unconsciously and deliberately. I am conscious that I am well-off and white and my attitudes are influenced by my upbringing so I’m hesitant to express my opinions but I hope that I can speak about the poem objectively.
The poem says that no matter what form oppression takes, the subjugated know that the situation is not of their making and not their fault and that they have a right to stand alongside their oppressors as equals and that hope and resolve will bring that equality in the end.
The poem opens by saying that no matter how the truth is twisted to maintain a narrative of superiority, the oppressed will transcend these crude and petty measures and rise above their tormentors “like dust.”
We see our narrator walking tall and proud as if she was the owner of rich oil wells and the suggestion is that this swagger and confidence—this “sassiness”— depresses her supposed superiors, perhaps because there apparently is no reason for it.
She affirms that her right to equality is as inevitable as the rising of the moon and sun and the tidal movement of the seas: “Just like hopes springing high,/Still I’ll rise.”—torture and lies can’t prevent the human spirit from hoping for better times and working for them.
What’s the motivation for such oppression—why should anybody want to see another broken, dispirited and weeping? What can they possibly gain from it? She itemises all the behaviours that a persecutor looks for in their victims, while implying that she won’t exhibit any of them.
She emphasises her confidence despite those who would see her demoralised and defeated—her pride surrounds her like armour, and her laughter is rich with a happiness whose victory is assured.
No matter the injuries that are inflicted on her, even should she be done to death, she still will surpass her persecutors, her innate worth and courage as insubstantial and intangible to them as air so that her spirit escapes unsullied from the torture chamber—martyrdom only strengthens her cause.
She shows us a woman whose confidence extends to her sexuality and consequent willingness to express it openly: perhaps her persecutors are shocked by such behaviour but she doesn’t care—she dances like she’s “got diamonds/At the meeting of my thighs.”
We see the emergence of black people from the places and roles that they were traditionally forced into—“the hut’s of history’s shame” and “a past that’s rooted in pain.” They rise from these shackles like “a black ocean, leaping and wide”—as irresistible as the incoming tide.
The end of the poem is hopeful: terror and fear are discarded as an equal people rise to accept the freedoms that should have been theirs by right from the first and now that they are gained it seems as if a new day has dawned, fresh and clear of the preceding darkness. They can bring the undoubted gifts of their heritage to the benefit of all humanity: truly “the dream and the hope of the slave.”
It seems to me that the message of this poem is one of hope and self-belief—if one maintains these, one can transcend the hatred and prejudice of others and if they are sustained long enough, society changes and confers the desired equality—it is a slow and arduous process though, and there are still many cases and examples of bias and prejudice even when equality is enshrined in law.
This was Maya Angelou’s favourite poem and there’s a brilliant video of her performing it on YouTube. It comes from the book “And Still I Rise” which examines how we can rise above doubt and despair though hope and determination, and its power lies in the fact that although it was written by a black woman about the sufferings and hopes of black people, it might apply to anyone suffering persecution and discrimination.
I like it because it is so powerful and because it’s full of great imagery that contrasts the positivity arising from hope and determination with the negativity of bigotry and hatred.