A rainbow in the clouds

An evening with Dr. Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou in Baltimore, ©John Mathew Smith 2001. Wikipedia Commons.

You might say it’s a stretch to say I met Maya Angelou. But I'm not sure how else to express what it's like to hear her speak.

In October of 2009, I was in college for the fourth time, trying my best to scrape away at the list of classes I'd taken three times before and get to the damn finish line.

Contemporary art history was one of those classes. I’d walk in, stinking of fresh marijuana after having spent hours harvesting in a concealed attic with a family of girls who didn't speak English. I didn't talk to anyone in the class. I didn’t try to be one of the smart ones. 

I hunched over to avoid questions from the aggressively feminist instructor who pointed with all five fingers and frankly scared the crap out of me.

But she brought up a once-in-a-lifetime event that was happening that very night. Dr. Maya Angelou was coming to our school to speak.

I brushed it off, too busy with everyday stresses to even consider spending two hours sitting in a gymnasium. The professor, however, was insistent that we go. She argued that it wouldn't cost us much as students, and we would likely never get this chance again.

We all grew up studying Maya Angelou's work, and there was no question about her reputation. I risked an argument with my boyfriend to change my plans for the evening.

When I arrived, the gymnasium was bustling. I had never seen it so full. I found myself a seat at the back of the room, just in case I wanted to leave early. Most of the attendees were students, cracking loud jokes and giggling with each other irreverently.

Slowly, the room went dark and an introduction was made. The chatter slowed until it was so silent I could hear the breath of the person sitting next to me.

From the invisible stage, a voice made herself known.

Without instruments or background music, Dr. Angelou came out singing — no, swinging — each booming syllable hitting like a shot to the solar plexus. It was an old slave song about hope, and the 80-year old woman on stage managed to transcend time and space with a tool as primordial as vocal vibrations.

The lights came on slowly, and even from the back row of the gymnasium, I could see the sparkle in her eyes through the layers of black cloth, the slightly crooked hat, and the wrinkles that now shaped her face.

As she told her many stories, her voice ran like a stream connecting the mountains and valleys of human experiences. She told stories about her Uncle Willy, of having been a sex worker, and what it means to be a “rainbow in the cloud.”

She shared one of her favorite quotes, written by Terence the African, a slave sold to a Roman senator, who was eventually freed for his writing abilities.

Publius Terentius Afer. Image from Wikipedia.org.

Terence wrote, “Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto,” which translates to:

"I am a human being. Nothing human can be alien to me."

Dr. Angelou explained that all of us share the same capacity for human experience. Whether those experiences are that of criminals or saints does not make them any more or less human.

She urged the students to see our shared humanity, not just with those who are like us, but with all people around the world. She reminded us that we all carry the capacity for both greatness and terror.

I'll never forget walking away from that event, in awe of the power of one woman's voice to inspire so many.

In her simple song lie the pains of the past and hope for the future. But she made it clear that the present was up to us.

Hearing her speak made it shockingly clear that the present life I was living was not one I was proud of. I wanted to retch the sickness in my stomach.

I hated that I had put my creative interests aside. I hated the hardened person I had become in order to survive the world I had lost myself in.

With a knowing smile, and maybe even a wink, Dr. Angelou ended her talk with grace.

We never had so much as a conversation, and I never saw her again after that night.

But I believe that every time she spoke, she bared her entire soul so each person in the crowd could taste it. Maya Angelou made sure everyone in the crowd knew exactly who she was.

And isn’t that what it means to truly meet someone?

So that’s why I don’t hesitate to say that I’ve in some way met her — because I was there, sitting in front of her, taking in her energy and learning from her stories.

And at the end of the night, I knew who Maya Angelou was, and a little more about who I might be, too.

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For the curious, here’s a similar talk she gave at Evergreen: