And Still I Rise
I used to admire myself – not in the mirror, although there were times when I was young that I wasn’ttotally displeased with the image that came back to me. But I admired who I was. There was a time when I thought I was “kind of kind,” “sort of smart” and perhaps a little more open-minded and caring than the run-of-the-mill woman my age. I used to think I was a fairly good friend, a reasonable listener. I knew I tried not to be selfish and was guilty when I monopolized a conversation for self-intent. I knew I was a loving wife, and assumed from my husband's responses that I was an excellent lover. When my daughter was born, I was certain that no other mother could have loved a child more or worked harder to ensure a child’s well-being. I don’t admire myself anymore – not the person I’ve become. That’s what happens when a good man leaves a good woman. But it's Maya Angelo's poem that soothes and, at the same time, inspires me. Whether or not there were lies, or hatefu
