phenomenal woman, that's me

Back when I lived in Cambridge and volunteered as a tutor at a homework center one or two nights a week, there was an evening when a girl I’d known for a few years but never really connected with brought in a poem and read it aloud to a small group of girls and myself. I remember Dominique standing in the doorway, holding open the anthology of African American poetry with pride and reading with intense focus. Dominique was 13 then, a gorgeous girl with a womanly body already well developed. She got attention from boys constantly, and the previous week, I’d found her tucked into the space behind the half-open classroom door, hand pressed to her mouth, modeling for a friend how to kiss a boy. I might have overlooked the scene if I hadn’t been at the same time listening to the chatter of the other girls in the room, hearing them whisper about Dominique and the older boy she was dating; but having heard all their theories, and watching as she held the one hand to her mouth and slipped the other around her own back, began to caress and wiggle her hip, I’d decided I had to step in. I’d pulled her aside quietly, not making a scene, but I could see she was flushed with embarrassment. When I’d explained to her that the only tutoring that was appropriate in that classroom was the academic kind, the red in her face had deepened and she, like a much younger child might, had slipped her hands into mine, letting tears come freely to her eyes, and promised me that she had done nothing bad, that she had only kissed him and only just a little. She’d told me her mama would have had her hide if she’d done anything more. She’d squeezed my hands, eyes pleading with me for trust.

I’d told her I believed her and was proud of her because she was a beautiful, smart girl who clearly knew that she had years and years ahead of her for dating, that there was no rush. She’d nodded vigorously, hands hot within mine, and promised me she was still a little girl. I remember, then, feeling a little regretful that I’d made her feel inappropriate, so I’d assured her that my concern was only that we not teach the younger girls anything they weren’t ready for, that I trusted her and knew she would make good decisions for herself. Her eyes were glowing by the end of the conversation, pride shining from her radiant face. She was responsible, she’d promised me, and finally let go of my hands.

The next week she came strolling into the classroom with one hand holding up the anthology and the other firmly planted on her small hip. She stopped dramatically in the doorway, asked for an audience, and then began reading: “Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. / I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size / But when I start to tell them, / They think I'm telling lies. / I say. . .” As she read, I could do nothing but grin. Somehow, Dominique, who rarely stayed put in a desk long enough to get any homework done, had found and studied one of the most womanly self-empowerment poems of all time, and she’d gotten from it, even at the confusing age of 13, that there is more to sexiness than just physique, more to appeal than just physical beauty. She read the poem terribly, stumbling over each line and sometimes going back to try to get each word right, but I could tell that she could tell what it was about, that the poem helped her take pride in her own newfound womanly-ness.

When she was done I asked for the anthology, and then I read the poem back to Dominique and the other girls with all the sass and assurance I can muster into my voice. I read with a careful cadence, giving time for certain words to hover, for the grin on my face to surface between verses, for the grins on their faces to surface too. These girls all got the poem after I read it like that, all sass and self-confidence, and to my delight, at the end-of-the-year celebration a few months later, three of them read it aloud together, gliding over words they’d clearly rehearsed numerous times, beaming as they spoke, cheeks filling with the best kind of color—with exhilaration, and purpose, and passion. They’d grinned at me at the end, and I’d wiped my eyes and wrapped those girls into my arms and promised, silently to myself, that I would never let go of the feeling that poem conjures inside me. That I would never, no matter what I faced, think of myself as anything less than what Maya Angelou assured me I could indeed be: a woman, phenomenally.

“Phenomenal Woman” by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.