An Everlasting Gift From an Extraordinary Woman

Many years ago, I met an extraordinary woman. I knew this by how she handled the situation of our meeting — with graciousness, despite the insult that I had perpetrated on her.

It was 37 years ago this month, and I was a young journalist in Memphis, Tennessee. I came to work that day with no particular plan in mind, but fate was on my side from the minute my editor rushed up as I approached my desk.

Handing me a slip of paper with a name I did not know, my boss told me to leave immediately for the cafeteria of a nearby college, where the interviewee was scheduled to speak that evening. I was given no information about my subject other than she had written a book.
There would be no time to search for background information in the morgue (news-speak for the library of previously published stories). There would be no researching during the 10-minute drive. In those days, our image of a mobile device was Dick Tracy’s watch. Even if you don’t know what I mean, you know how to find out, which is pretty extraordinary in itself.

I remember waiting in that cafeteria, wondering how I was going to approach someone the newspaper was motivated to interview, but not honorably enough to give me time to know in advance who she was, what she was about, not even what she was going to be discussing at her speech later that evening!

Then the door opened, and in walked this tall, self-possessed woman, purposeful, with a bright smile and a steady gait, dressed in a multi-colored gown. She approached me and sat down, introduced herself and asked my name. In facing this presence, only the truth would do, and I revealed my dilemma and my embarrassment about it.

And then, with a graciousness and humility that was quite striking, she began to say something of her life. I did not learn until later how well known she already was, throughout the world, as a writer and performer. It was likely that did not matter so much to the newspaper as the fact she was somewhat of a local girl, having spent part of her youth in an area of the South that was within the newspaper’s geographic range.

After our interview, I left to write my story. Nothing fancy, yet written with respect. This was not favored back then, for journalists were expected to be objective. No way that day! As soon as I was released from duty, I returned to the college to spend the rest of my day with this Renaissance woman and her companions — and to discover the difference between a speech and a work of art.

We corresponded for a while after that and although this faded over time, I would come to devour every book she had ever written and continued to follow her works and her public life. She made quite a mark on this world: This artist, poet and author, social activist, this inspiration to all, especially to women. She was an embodiment of the first two words of her poem, “On the Pulse of Morning,” which she recited on the podium at the U.S. Capitol during William Jefferson Clinton’s first inauguration: She was “A Rock.”

When I first drafted this essay in early April, it was a few days after her 86th birthday. Many years ago I had learned that one of her dearest friends was assassinated on her 40th birthday right there in Memphis. Martin Luther King, April 4, 1968. I cannot know if it was tough for her to be there in that city on that day. But there she was, with her head high, responding with kindness to an ignorant journalist, as she most likely had done other times before and would do so again.

A few years ago, I learned she was in the city where I live, signing copies of her cookbook,Hallelujah! The Welcome Table: A Lifetime of Memories with Recipes. I dropped all plans, gathered tomatoes from my garden, and arrived to visit in a long and friendly line waiting for her signature and a momentary word. When my turn came, I offered my gratitude for her own gift to me. As you might expect, my tomatoes and I were graciously received, although by then so many years and people had passed her way that her memory of our encounter was faint, if there at all.

So I will hold it close, and never forget the momentous day I spent with Maya Angelou.

In remembering her, I know how extraordinary an ordinary person can become.

Rest well, dear one, rest well.

-30- 

I met Maya Angelou a week before a trip to New York, where I was to meet with my editors at People Magazine and The New York Times, both of whom I served as a per diem “stringer.” My plan to continue my rise in journalism also included an appointment with a Cosmopolitan Magazine editor, but that’s a whole other story. While I had thought journalism would be the best way I could use my talents to better the world, through my encounter with Maya Angelou, I discovered other possibilities. She was a spark that led to my eventual departure from mainstream media into the future I am now living. For this gift, I am ever grateful.