My Great-Grandmother Lucille Tiggs pictured at the far left. I have no clue of when this was, but I love this picture. Not sure who the other people are, but I aim to find out.
I remember my Great-Grandmother being more than sure of herself, she was confident and she had a presence about her that demanded your attention. I was close to her, undeniably and inexplicably close. Her passing more than sixteen years ago now gutted me. I felt as though my world would crumble. Her mind decided to give up on her. She had a form of dementia that beat her to a pulp and shrunk her overwhelming presence to one that we needn’t cower from.
I do not want to ever know what it feels like to lose your mind, your sanity, your ability to make vital decisions for both yourself and others. When my Great-Grandmother’s condition worsened, her children agreed to have her placed under the watchful eyes of an appointed caregiver. There, in someone else’s home, she was monitored and cared for accordingly by professionals. It was there on my visits to her, that I noticed how aggressive this illness was. She didn’t know me anymore. Oh, she knew that I was family, but she kept referring to me as my older cousin. It pained me to watch her wither, to witness her become someone I did not know.
Even though she was no longer as smart as a whip and her memory began shifting and leaving her day by day, there was still a sense of groundedness in her. I looked at her and she appeared centered. Was it the fact that she was in her eighties and had been the epitome of strength and tenacity for our family for decades? Was it because I still saw the confident and self-assured reckoning of a woman that she was? I am certain that it was a combination of these things, but now, when I feel as though I may fall or am falling, I think of her. I remember who she was and…
I tell myself that I am of her blood and I am centered, grounded, confident, and sure.
My oldest nephew Jeremiah. My youngest niece Sarai.My baby cousin Caison and I. Christmas Eve, 2018.And again.My niece, the dimpled dream, Kali.My nephew Jr., always frowning. Lol.My oldest niece Tierney, the eldest of them all. This young one is so incredibly intelligent, it truly renders me speechless.
The two things that I am sincerely proud of is being an Auntie and a big cousin. If I could divvy out my heart equally to each of these wondrous beings, I would. Time and distance keeps us apart more than I believe that it should, but I am most grateful for photos, the phone, and the US Postal service.
From the mind of an exceptional Writer, Artist, & human being — DHBogucki. A bit of one of my favorite verses in scripture (John 13:34–35), inked on my skin.
Gently,
the needle glides,
my skin becomes
a perfectionist’s canvas —
a vision is born.
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DHBogucki, who I lovingly call “B” blessed me with the ink you see above. I had an idea of what I wanted, pitched it to B, and he brought it to life. He’s a tattoo apprentice based in Western NC and a darn good one too! Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
A caterpillar isn’t told when it’s time to free itself from its cocoon and fly, it simply knows. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
I have been carrying a weight so heavy, it is hard to bring forth its reveal without losing some parts of me in the process. I am the adult child of a Preacher. Not just a Preacher, but a Southern Black Episcopalian Preacher/Elder/Minister who came from a devout Southern Black Baptist family. I was taught who to be, how to be, and what to be while in the walls of my parents’ home until our home fell apart. I wanted to lose myself in the world because my world was no more.
Divorce to a twelve-year-old who had an intense bond with her father is crippling.I searched in many areas for bits of my father. Our apartment did not smell the same. The floorboards did not creak the same. Breakfast was not breakfast without my father blessing the food.My mom lost the glimmer in her eyes, depression sunk in. I deposited all of my energy into books, into writing, into excelling in school, in both academia and athletics.
I was eight when I knew I liked both boys and girls. I did not need anyone to tell me the difference, I knew it.I knew I wanted a certain little girl to walk me home, hold my hand, and sit with me on my mother’s porch swing after school. I was also aware without it ever being uttered, that in the eyes of my father, and his family that it would be “wrong.”I never once thought that my mother would scold me or make me feel less than who I was. I feared the wrath of my father. I feared what he would say, not what he would do as he was not a violent man, but what he would say — how he would say it.
I am half her, my mother. Half of her blood lives in me which pulsates in every vein and reminds me to “love people no matter what, Tremaine.God ate with prostitutes and thieves.You will never be fit to judge anyone, so don’t you dare.”She, the daughter of an Evangelist, but who rebelled in every way possible including conceiving while in her teens and while unmarried, taught me the most important lesson in life: “You were made to love all God’s children, not just a select few. But, all.” And under her roof, that was the core. You better had adhered to it.
So, why now, at thirty-eight, am I still not completely, utterly, and totally out of the closet?I think of the backlash. Of how I will be treated by family, friends, and anyone I have connected with over the years, but what worries me most is how my father and his family will accept the news. I have played the scene out over and over and over again.And it all comes crashing down in front of me, leaving me dusty and despondent.
I know who I am. I know whose I am. But that does not obliterate the fear.
I am now employed by an organization that is big on diversity and inclusion. I have attended a church for the last three years that truly means, “Come as you are” when they deliver this message. I stand freely in the pews, losing myself in worship, crying because a part of me feels trapped.On Sundays, I feel the pain moreand I know, at this stage, that God did not and cannot make mistakes.
I am loved. I can say that now without a flinch in my body. I am loved because of what people know, because of what they see and hear, however, how will this love change when who they know is not who they thought they knew? I never thought I would be a part-time anything, let alone, a part-time ME.I have cried enough tears to know that the well in my body is drying up. Freeing myself is another goal I aim to accomplish.
“You were made to love all God’s children, not just a select few. But, all.”
I am bisexual. I knew this when my heart swelled up dreaming about that same little girl, thinking one day — she’d walk me home. I knew this long before I knew that I could triple jump, backflip, climb trees, build mud castles, etc. In the coming days, whatever strength I can muster up will probably be dedicated to removing a cloak. One that I hope I will never have to don again. But, I am afraid, however, that cannot always be my excuse. At some point, fear will have to step aside and I will have to step out.
Today, I began by telling my mother, “Mom, I have a lot on my heart, stuff that I’d like to share with you one day soon.” And knowing my mom, knowing her heart and how much we’ve been through and how long it took us to get to this point in life where our bond is unbreakable, I knew she’d say something to make me feel a bit lighter. She did. “Whatever it is baby, you’re carrying it well.When you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.”And that is what I needed to hear.I will never know my father’s reaction if I do not tell him — biting the bullet on that one will be harder, but I have a good feeling that I will not have to do it alone.
A Cornered Gurl 
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