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Zusatztext “The buoyant! gifted Maya Angelou continues her autobiography. . . . Both her joy and her despair have twice as much impact as most people’s.” –New York “Angelou may be one of the best hunters of the heart! one of the best to explore the insides of folks! black or white! and find what moves them! what makes them real and tangible to themselves and others.” –The Christian Science Monitor “Angelou is a sharp observer and commentator on culture. . . . [Her book is] filled with penetrating observations about the people she encounters.” –Chicago Tribune Book World “Honest! funny and heartwarming . . . The strength of the book is Angelou’s lyrical writing . . . a God-given gift.” –The Washington Star “Angelou is one of the geniuses of the Afro-American serial autobiography.” –The New York Times Informationen zum Autor Maya Angelou Klappentext In this third self-contained volume of her autobiography, which began with I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou moves into the adult world. Maya struggles to support herself and her son through a series of odd jobs and weathers a failed marriage to a white man before landing a gig singing in one of the most popular nightclubs on the San Francisco coast. From there, she is called to New York to join the cast of Porgy and Bess. Maya soon finds herself on a joyous and dramatic adventure, touring abroad through Italy, France, Greece, Yugoslavia, and Egypt with spirited cast members, and performing for large, enthusiastic audiences. The exciting experience is dampened only by Maya's nagging guilt that she has abandoned the person she loves most in life, her son, whose reentrance into her world reveals to Maya the healing power of devotion and love. Charged with Maya Angelou's remarkable sense of life and love, Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas is a unique celebration of the human condition-and an enthralling saga that has touched, inspired, and empowered readers worldwide.Chapter 1 “Don’t the moon look lonesome shining through the trees? Ah, don’t the moon look lonesome shining through the trees? Don’t your house look lonesome when your baby pack up to leave?” Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the spaces between the notes and curl my back to loneliness. In my rented room (cooking privileges down the hall), I would play a record, then put my arms around the shoulders of the song. As we danced, glued together, I would nuzzle into its neck, kissing the skin, and rubbing its cheek with my own. The Melrose Record Shop on Fillmore was a center for music, musicians, music lovers and record collectors. Blasts from its loudspeaker poured out into the street with all the insistence of a false mourner at a graveside. Along one wall of its dark interior, stalls were arranged like open tele- phone booths. Customers stood playing their selections on turn?tables and listening through earphones. I had two hours between jobs. Occasionally I went to the library or, if the hours coincided to a free dance class at the YWCA. But most often I directed myself to the melodious Melrose Record Store, where I could wallow, rutting in music. Louise Cox, a short blonde who was part owner of the store, flitted between customers like a fickle butterfly in a rose garden. She was white, wore perfume and smiled openly with the Negro customers, so I knew she was sophisticated. Other people’s sophistication tended to make me nervous and I stayed shy of Louise. My music tastes seesawed between the blues of John Lee Hooker and the bubbling silver sounds of Charlie Parker. For a year I had been collecting their records. On one visit to the store, Louise came over to the booth where I was listening to a record. “Hi, I’m Louise. What’s your name?” I thought of “Puddin’ in tame. Ask...
