I met Maya Angelou once. I was a young social worker and she was an old soul, even in her fifties. She signed my books and looked me in the eye and smiled. She reminded me of my grandmother who was Swedish.
I, too, was mute as a child.
I keep Maya’s books on my shelf in homage to released voices and speaking truth, grace under fire, and to the Grandmother Lodge where ethnicity doesn’t matter but soul food does.