I'm Bill Moyers. It's good to have your ear.

Going home with Baya Angelou.

We lived with our grandmother and uncle in the rear of the store.

Her contemporaries called her Sister Henderson, Mother Henderson, Mrs. Henderson.

These little white kids would come in and call her, Annie,

that was worse than abusing me.

You understand?

It was terrifying that I could be so powerless

that this great powerful woman who was my protection couldn't protect herself, nor could

she protect her son, really, from this kind of violation, intrusion.

Thanks for joining us.

Maya Angelou's death late this spring at 86 sent me back in time.

We had first met in New York City 45 years ago.

Soon after she had published her phenomenal best-selling memoir,

I know why the Cage Bird sings.

She was already a presence, civil rights activist, singer, dancer, songwriter. But that first night,

we discovered that we had both grown up in small, segregated towns just a hop, skip, and jump

from each other. So we talked about my childhood in Marshall, Texas, and hers in Stamps, Arkansas.

Born Marguerite Johnson in St. Louis, she was sent to stamps to live with her grandmother

and hadn't returned for years.

Let's go back together.

I said, she wouldn't have it.

...