Last Saturday evening, I had the honor of seeing Dr. Maya Angelou speak at Michigan Technological University in Houghton, Michigan. I was nervous about this event for weeks preceding it. In my mind, I rehearsed several possible conversations I might have with this larger-than-life poet, memoirist, novelist, actress, singer, historian, civil rights activist, former Poet Laureate, etc. I'm sure I've left out some of her many accomplishments, but you get the point.
When I was twelve, I happened to see President Clinton's inauguration on TV. I think my dad was watching it, and somehow I flitted into the room in time to catch a woman reciting a poem on TV. Until that day, I had been obsessed with Shel Silverstein, but wasn't really aware of the world of poetry. As Maya Angelou read "On the Pulse of the Morning," I was mesmerized. Her rhythm and grace opened up in me a future of possibility. The next morning, I tore the paper from my dad's hand. The poem had been printed on it. My parents, thankfully, noticed my interest, and I began receiving Angelou's poetry books and memoirs at birthdays and holidays. Then, relatives branched out and gifted me with Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, and William Shakespeare. I fell in love.
The curtains opened to an elegant woman with a shock of white hair. She wore a long navy blue dress simply adorned with a gold necklace. She was singing a slave spiritual about a rainbow. Throughout the show, Dr. Angelou would suddenly break into song. It was beautiful. She also recited poetry by Shakespeare, Henley, and Dunbar. She told stories about her life. One story was about the time she was asked to conduct the Boston Pops. When she was up on stage, she asked her family to stand up. Three black people stood up. She asked her other family to stand up. A group of white people stood up. She asked that all her family stand up. Thousands of people stood, spanning the rolling green hills. Dr. Angelou told us that, we, too, were her family. We stood up. We were her family, and we were her rainbow.
Dr. Angelou ended the evening by reciting the poem she wrote for the United Nations' fiftieth anniversary, called "A Brave and Startling Truth." I urge and invite you to look up this poem. It's both sad and hopeful, a poem about the sorrows of the world and the endless possibilities we have to make this world a better place.
When the curtains closed, we stood and clapped for several minutes. Then, I sat down. As the auditorium emptied out, I just sat. I tried to remember every detail about her speech. When that failed, I vowed to hold on to the feeling she gave me, a magical feeling that I had the power to change the world. Dr. Angelou taught me that we all have that power. Poets, teachers, cashiers, and clerks, we all have that power.
Thank you, Dr. Maya Angelou for inspiring me to be a poet. I'm not sad I didn't get to deliver my well-rehearsed speech to you. We had a conversation that night, and I wouldn't change a word.
When I was twelve, I happened to see President Clinton's inauguration on TV. I think my dad was watching it, and somehow I flitted into the room in time to catch a woman reciting a poem on TV. Until that day, I had been obsessed with Shel Silverstein, but wasn't really aware of the world of poetry. As Maya Angelou read "On the Pulse of the Morning," I was mesmerized. Her rhythm and grace opened up in me a future of possibility. The next morning, I tore the paper from my dad's hand. The poem had been printed on it. My parents, thankfully, noticed my interest, and I began receiving Angelou's poetry books and memoirs at birthdays and holidays. Then, relatives branched out and gifted me with Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, and William Shakespeare. I fell in love.
The curtains opened to an elegant woman with a shock of white hair. She wore a long navy blue dress simply adorned with a gold necklace. She was singing a slave spiritual about a rainbow. Throughout the show, Dr. Angelou would suddenly break into song. It was beautiful. She also recited poetry by Shakespeare, Henley, and Dunbar. She told stories about her life. One story was about the time she was asked to conduct the Boston Pops. When she was up on stage, she asked her family to stand up. Three black people stood up. She asked her other family to stand up. A group of white people stood up. She asked that all her family stand up. Thousands of people stood, spanning the rolling green hills. Dr. Angelou told us that, we, too, were her family. We stood up. We were her family, and we were her rainbow.
Dr. Angelou ended the evening by reciting the poem she wrote for the United Nations' fiftieth anniversary, called "A Brave and Startling Truth." I urge and invite you to look up this poem. It's both sad and hopeful, a poem about the sorrows of the world and the endless possibilities we have to make this world a better place.
When the curtains closed, we stood and clapped for several minutes. Then, I sat down. As the auditorium emptied out, I just sat. I tried to remember every detail about her speech. When that failed, I vowed to hold on to the feeling she gave me, a magical feeling that I had the power to change the world. Dr. Angelou taught me that we all have that power. Poets, teachers, cashiers, and clerks, we all have that power.
Thank you, Dr. Maya Angelou for inspiring me to be a poet. I'm not sad I didn't get to deliver my well-rehearsed speech to you. We had a conversation that night, and I wouldn't change a word.
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