A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.”

― Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

I wrote an awful list of terrible things that have happened to me. I didn’t mean it to be that awful, but once I started, the bullet points just kept coming. Writing is like that sometimes. And to be honest, a lot of my life has been awful.

I talked to a friend of mine after I posted it and we had this conversation:

Him: That’s one heavy fucking list. You’ve been through far more than me.
Me: And nothing compared to some. I just finished watching Band of Brothers. My story is kindergarten compared to that. Bastogne, stranded outside in a frozen winter, cut off from help or supplies while people are trying to kill you constantly.”
H: I think what happened to you is worse.
M:  I think their story is far worse, but I think everyone’s story is far worse. I can always find an “at least I…” in there somewhere.
H: Because you’re a survivor and that’s how you cope.

I think about all the times I’ve talked about my past and people have said, “I haven’t gone through as much as you have…” and the times I’ve said that myself, and I wonder why it is that humans always feel the need to compare? Why is it that we really only appreciate other people’s stories in comparison to my own? What is it about the human condition that makes us respond more to shared suffering than shared happiness?

It’s selfishness and compassion rolled into one. We can only feel sympathy by tapping into our own similar experiences. We feel empathy by putting ourselves in those experiences and making it about us. We cannot feel for someone else unless we can imagine feeling it ourselves.

And I think of great people like Maya Angelou who knew first-hand what it’s like to be violated as a child. She wrote it down. She sang it. She refused to be silent anymore. She shared the beauty and hurt inside of her with anyone who would listen. She spoke for those of us who hadn’t found our voices yet.

And once again, I compare myself, my story to hers, and I can’t help but be envious that she let the words fly out of her and go as far as they could. She attached the words to her name, a name she chose, but a name that was hers nonetheless, and she did not hide. She stood in front of the crowd, most of whom could never understand and some who understood all too well, and she spoke. She smiled that great big smile. She sang. She freed herself from the cage.

And I compare myself again and hope that, one day, I can do the same. For now, I will continue to find the “at least I…” in every story.

Thank you, Maya.