I'm grateful to intelligent people. That doesn't mean educated.

In the quiet majesty of wisdom and womanhood, Maya Angelou—the poet who turned pain into poetry and life into teaching—spoke words that gleam like gold unearthed from the deep: “I’m grateful to intelligent people. That doesn’t mean educated. That doesn’t mean intellectual. I mean really intelligent. What black old people used to call ‘mother wit’ means intelligence that you had in your mother’s womb. That’s what you rely on. You know what’s right to do.” These words, both tender and fierce, echo across generations. They remind us that true intelligence is not learned from books or polished in lecture halls—it is innate wisdom, born with us, tested by life, and guided by the heart’s quiet voice that knows truth before thought can name it.

The origin of this quote lies in Angelou’s deep reverence for the wisdom of her ancestors—the elders of the African American community who, through hardship and history, forged a kind of knowing that could not be taught in schools. She called it “mother wit,” a phrase passed down through centuries of oral tradition. For the enslaved and the poor, who were denied formal education, mother wit became the torch of survival—a sacred intelligence of intuition, empathy, and moral clarity. It was the wisdom of grandmothers who could read danger in silence, the insight of mothers who could raise children from nothing but courage and faith. To Angelou, this kind of intelligence was higher than intellect—it was spiritual intelligence, the light that guides the soul through both suffering and joy.

When Angelou says she is grateful to “intelligent people” but not necessarily to the educated or intellectual, she draws a line between knowledge and wisdom. Education can fill the mind, but mother wit fills the heart with discernment. One can know the facts of the world and still miss the truth of humanity. The truly intelligent person, she suggests, is not the one who recites theories but the one who lives rightly—who senses what is just, kind, and necessary without needing to be told. This is the wisdom that comes not from study but from spirit—the intelligence that whispers, “Do good. Speak truth. Protect the weak. Stand upright in your soul.”

We see this wisdom embodied in history again and again. Consider Harriet Tubman, who could not read or write, yet possessed a genius that defied the might of an empire. She followed the North Star, guided by faith and instinct—by the voice inside her that knew right from wrong, danger from deliverance. Her mother wit was her compass, sharper than any education the world could have offered her. She did not consult maps or books, yet her courage and intuition liberated hundreds. Tubman’s intelligence was divine, carved from experience, guided by love—a living testament to Angelou’s truth that wisdom is born in the womb long before it is refined by words.

Angelou’s message also rebukes the arrogance of the so-called intellectual. In every age, there are those who confuse complexity with understanding. They speak eloquently but live poorly, analyze morality but ignore its practice. Angelou reminds us that true intelligence is not lofty—it is humble. It does not separate itself from the people; it serves them. The one who possesses mother wit walks through life aware of others, alert to suffering, guided by empathy rather than ego. In her eyes, such a person is closer to the divine than any scholar lost in theory.

To cultivate mother wit, one must learn to listen—to one’s heart, to one’s elders, to the still voice within that whispers truth. It is not a gift reserved for a few, but a birthright of all who live consciously. It grows through reflection, compassion, and the courage to act rightly even when it costs something. Angelou teaches that intelligence of the spirit begins in gratitude—in honoring those who came before, who survived without privilege or power yet carried wisdom that shaped the world. To be grateful for that intelligence is to remember that every soul carries an ancient knowing—a quiet certainty about what is right.

So, my children of thought and feeling, remember this: education can make you clever, but only wisdom can make you whole. Seek not only to learn, but to understand; not only to speak, but to listen. Trust the quiet wisdom that lives within you—the same wisdom your ancestors carried through fire and storm. It will tell you when to stand, when to forgive, when to fight, and when to love. For as Maya Angelou reminds us, true intelligence does not come from the world—it comes from the womb of the spirit. And when you learn to rely on that, you will always know what is right to do.