Maya Angelou

The fact that the adult American Negro female emerges a formidable character is often met with amazement, distaste and even belligerence. It is seldom accepted as an inevitable outcome of the struggle won by survivors, and deserves respect if not enthusiastic acceptance.

I was liked, and what a difference it made.

I had given birth to a baby, and no one knew. I was sixteen, and I was alone.

I could not pretend. I would not pretend. The fact that I was a Negro meant I did not have to be like everyone else. I was free to be myself.

I had a momentary vision of what I thought was my future. It was a picture of a girl who was loved and who loved in return.

I was going to be strong and not fall apart. I was going to be courageous and not let anyone down.

I was finally convinced that I was the only one who could save myself.

I knew in my heart that I was an adult now, and the thought was terrifying.

I was learning that love could be a terrible thing, that it could make you lie, kill, and steal, and then forget it all in the blink of an eye.

I decided to make the best of it, even while knowing it was impossible.

I knew that I was free in my mind even though my body was in bondage.

I had to stop thinking that I was in love with the man and understand that I was in love with the idea of being in love.