Dinner With Maya Angelou & the Power of an Empathetic Witness
The Night I Had Dinner With Maya Angelou — And the Power of an Empathetic Witness
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
I walked into the theater that night expecting a phenomenal evening.
What I wasn’t expecting — was a transformative night that would eventually become a catalyst in my two-decade-long healing journey.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
When I was 30 my mother left her home in Santa Cruz and came to live with me.
She was 50 and had battled her mental wellness for as long as I’d known her.
But her birthday was in early May — as is Mother’s Day.
So when I learned early that Maya Angelou was coming to town for a performance within that beautiful window, I jumped to buy tickets.
I couldn’t think of a better gift to give my mom!
But the fall before the show date, my mom took her life at the local gun range.
I had two young boys and was fighting to defend them from their unstable, narcissistic father.
To say I felt lost and alone is a massive understatement.
There’s just no easy way to grieve your mother’s suicide.
And I didn’t have time.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Nonetheless, time didn’t stop for me.
Months passed, and Maya’s show date approached.
I wanted to see her — needed to experience her.
So on the night of, I dressed myself up in my rockstar Wonder Woman color power suit, and I took myself out.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
I took myself to a delightful Italian restaurant, pampered myself with my favorite dish, and drove myself to that performance.
Before going in, I decided to sell my mother’s ticket.
Because even though she wasn’t there to experience the magic, somebody deserved to.
A beautiful woman took my mother’s ticket and we were able to share little bits of ourselves with one another before the show.
I chose vulnerability that night and told her about my mother — She held my hand throughout the entire performance.
Witnessing #1 of the night.
The show was powerful and moving — what else can one expect from Maya Angelou?
But even though I left the theater feeling empowered — I also left feeling the weight of loss and loneliness.
I left feeling like I was missing something.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
I climbed into my car and set out for home.
And then, quite unexpectedly, A friend’s dad called my phone.
See, Maya was staying at a local hotel called The Library (is anything more fitting?),
and my friend’s dad knew the woman who was accommodating Maya’s stay.
He was calling to invite me to dinner with Maya Angelou.
Could I say anything other than “Yes!”?!
When I got to the hotel, there were eight of us seated at the table with Maya.
Throughout the evening, as I sat at the opposite end of the table, I got to listen to Maya share her thoughts on life.
But toward the end of the evening, my chance to speak with Maya came.
When a couple of people excused themselves from the table for a minute, I hopped up and took their spot right next to Maya.
I sat in front of her like a child at the feet of their icon, smiling up at her with giddy joy at the honor of sitting so close to her spirit.
She looked into my eyes and said “My darling.” (are there sweeter words than “My darling.”?)
“Do tell me your name again.”
With hushed eagerness I chirped out — “My name’s Kassandra!”
“Do tell me about yourself.”
And with those four words, Maya Angelou managed to open the floodgates of my tongue and I poured out my heart all over her lap.
Sometimes in life, you find yourself in the presence of a unique individual.
Someone who makes you feel safe.
Someone who holds space for you to take up when it feels like everyone else wants you to shrink and quiet down.
Someone who sees you.
I had no idea how deeply I wanted to be seen — How hungry I was to fit myself into a container held safely by another.
On that night — in that restaurant — at that table — Maya held that space for me.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
I told her how hard I was trying to be a good person — a good mother.
I told her how my own mother was now gone and how shattered my world was.
I told her about so many trials and aches and pains that I was trying daily to swallow and overcome.
And I told her how heavy everything felt, and how I just didn’t know what to do.
And Maya listened.
When I finished, she told me
“You remind me of myself when I wrote I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”
Witnessing #2.
She leaned over to her assistant and told her to go fetch her Still I Rise.
She signed the copy, set it down, looked at me, and Maya Angelou recited the entire poem into my eyes.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
I had absolutely no idea that this moment was a magnanimous first step into a deep, tumultuous journey of healing and freedom.
A 17-year-long one.
And I had no idea how many times I would return to that moment for comfort and encouragement.
Still I Rise became a staple along my walk.
I’ve turned it into art — I sing it around my house.
It’s a constant in my life — A fortress to snuggle into when I’m pressed down and aching.
A soothing balm for my pains that washes over me and reminds me of who I am.
I was unaware of so much in those days.
The business-woman in me didn’t understand that you can have mentors that you don’t actually meet with,
so the business-woman in me didn’t realize that Maya was mentoring me in that moment,
and that she continues to mentor me through her writings.
I walked away from that restaurant that night feeling complete.
Whole.
Because for the first time, I felt seen.
I felt heard.
I felt witnessed.
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Steven Jaggers once said, “Healing happens in the presence of an empathetic witness.”
And I personally experienced the truth and power of that statement the night I sat with Maya Angelou.
My empathetic witness.
This is why the self-help aisle can’t do it all — we need community.
17 years after that night, within that same early May window, I finally and fully grieved and released the pain of my mother’s suicide.
So, My Darling.
When burdened by the weight of things
And feeling like you may not know how to move forward,
Remember the power of the empathetic witness.
Turn to someone safe.
And talk.
And of course My Darling, I am here to hold that space for you.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
-Joseph Campbell
