I wish I could sit down for tea with Maya Angelou.
I want one quiet hour across from her.
A cup of tea between us.
Maybe something sweet on a little plate.
I would spend the first few minutes working very hard to hold back my tears.
One question has followed me for years.
I would ask her what she felt while she wrote I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
I want her feelings, the ones her body and heart held as the words arrived.
What did she feel?
Did writing it hurt?
Did it cleanse her?
Did putting those memories onto paper give them somewhere else to live?
Or did writing them pull them closer?
I would ask if tears filled her eyes as she wrote.
I’d ask if her stomach tied itself in a knot.
I’d ask if she walked away from certain passages for a while because they grew too heavy to hold.
I’d want to know what it felt like to take something so deeply personal and shape it into words that came to belong to millions of other people.
That question lives in me as a writer.
We talk so much about the finished work.
The book.
The poem.
The story.
The published words resting neatly on a page.
The person behind the page rarely enters the conversation.
The person remembering.
The person hurting.
The person trying to make sense of something that may defy sense.
The person staring at a sentence, wondering whether she can bear to write the next one.
I want to meet that Maya.
The icon whose name became synonymous with wisdom shines from every quote on social media. I want the writer.
The woman sitting alone with the page.
I would ask her if she knew what the book would become while she wrote it.
Did she know that people would find pieces of themselves inside it?
Did she know that decades later, someone could sit alone with her book and feel less alone?
That is what happened to me.
When I read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, something happened that resists explanation.
I read the book and felt understood.
The understanding arrived imperfectly, and it still reached me.
It came in that strange, intimate way that happens when someone puts words to something you have carried for years without a name.
Some books entertain you.
Some books earn your admiration.
Some books teach you something.
And then a few books find a place inside you and stay.
That one stayed with me.
If I ever shared that cup of tea with Maya Angelou, I think I would spend long stretches listening.
I’d want to hear her laugh.
I’d want to hear the way she spoke about writing.
I’d want to hear what she remembered.
And eventually, when the tea ran low and I had gathered enough courage, I’d tell her what her book did for me.
I’d tell her that when I closed it, I felt as though I were saying goodbye to someone who knew me.
Someone who had seen the beautiful parts.
The ugly parts.
The wounded parts.
And the parts I had yet to touch.
I’d tell her I still wonder how she reached across all those years and found me.
She did.
And maybe she’d smile.
Maybe she’d say something wise.
Maybe she’d tell me that this is what happens when we find the bravery to tell the truth.
Or maybe she’d take another sip of tea.
And I’d feel perfectly happy with that.
Sometimes the chance to sit across from the person whose words helped you understand yourself a little better holds all the answer you need.
So, Maya, if the universe ever decides to indulge one of my impossible wishes, I’ll bring the tea.
You bring the stories.
I’ll bring my book.
I have a few questions I’d love to ask you.
© 2026 Chandra Martin. All Rights Reserved.
