I am content in my skin — took me some time to be able to say this without flinching, but I have finally arrived.
I love how my hips sway uncontrollably to the sounds of the music of my people. I have fallen in love with my sense of style, my overall sassiness, and my lack of fear regarding speaking my mind.
I am strong in my stature and my thoughts and I am grateful for my ancestors before me; they did not think twice about who they were and what they offered this nation.
I am carved from unbreakable stone, washed by overflowing healing waters, and motivated by a tongue that can cut you down to size if a debate is invited.
I am not an “Angry Black Woman,” I simply get angry when you don’t understand me or worse — you won’t take the time to understand me.
I have centuries of pain loaded onto my shoulders — the cross I bear you will never be able to carry. It is made for me and my strength. I am walking the path designed for where I have to go.
I have learned to celebrate who I am; every facet, every curve, every minuscule thought that crosses my mind — all of it. And with this celebration of self, comes celebration of my ancestry.
And there is a sense of pride in this fact that can never be, won’t ever be negated.
4 photos of me through four different phases/years of my life. Photo collage created by Tremaine L. Loadholt
If you have ever been trapped within your own body — a prisoner of it, living life the way you thought you were supposed to, then you will know a little about this story. There is nothing freer than the day you learn to release yourself from the fear that bound you to silence, and you open up your mouth to share who you actually are — who you have always been. There was no day more freeing than the day I came out publicly — sharing my bisexuality with friends, family, and Medium.
The timing was perfect — I couldn’t sit on the fine details of my life any longer, and waiting seemed senseless. I love who I am. And those who love me stuck around. Those who I thought loved me never did.
Love’s freedom is you Soaring high in your own skin Unafraid to live
I am not perfect. I never will be. But perfection is never what I sought in life. It still isn’t. I only wanted to live freely, unbound to chains or shackles of what society held for me — what religiosity said I should be. I can breathe and simply be without the dark spaces of a closet keeping me company. My family — knowing before I could utter the words — love me still. My friends, most in tune with my vibe before I could share my truth — care about my existence.
I have never been happier to be me than I am right now. And the shift that took place in my life because of it is something I will never forget.
Doubt has been erased I am still so beautiful With or without you
a favorite thing: Photo Credit by Tremaine L. Loadholt
when the chill hits at just the right moment, I cuddle up with my old lady, sip on some peppermint brew, and watch my favorite animated Christmas movies.
the crisp air outside can stay bolted to the night–I’ll find warmth nestling under her love. the phone bleeps, and it’s you. your dimpled face appears, and you tell me about something that had you balled-over from laughter, and the only thing I can think of is how amazing it would be to be under or over you, instead.
I lean back, sink into the pressing of my chair, and dream of a place where Christmas lies on your lips and I am opening you as my gift, instead.
another favorite thing. The Old Lady, The Little Monster, Jernee Timid Loadholt. Photo Credit by Tremaine L. Loadholt
Nothing prepares you for the triggers of life — things that have been repressed and only dug up when the nights are cold, and a biting tongue and eager ears want you to confess.
I had not been feeling well late last week and into this current one, and one of the ways I gifted myself peace was to watch The Obituary of Tunde Johnson. What I did not prepare for was how intense the movie was, what it would stir up within me, and how hard I worked to bury some memories I thought would never be exhumed.
Tunde Johnson is a gay Nigerian-American teenager who is in a secret relationship with his school’s white lacrosse champion Soren. Soren is closeted and officially dating popular girl Marley, Tunde’s best friend since childhood. The day of Soren’s birthday, when the two boys have planned to come out to their families, Tunde is stopped and fatally shot by a police officer. Following his death, he wakes up the previous morning and becomes trapped in a time loop, forced to relive the day of his murder, which keeps happening in different ways no matter how hard he tries to change it. — Wikipedia
As I watched Steven Silver, the actor who played Babatunde Adesola Johnson, in the movie, I gasped. I inhaled and exhaled broken hearts, defeated conversations, and intense pain. I know what it feels like to keep a secret because the person you love cannot (will not) announce they love you, too.
However, my experience was slightly different.
I am Tunde Johnson
She was like no one I had ever met — a Scorpio with a vast vocabulary, dimples so deep they appeared when she breathed, and a soft and welcoming voice. Words connected us. They were our saving grace, and in them, we toyed with more than just language.
In my 20s, I never thought I would ever fall for a woman who was almost engaged, then engaged, then married, and who became a mother.
We let words on a screen pull us in, caress us, and provide comfort and care when no one else was around. I skipped college classes to communicate with her. I took trips to where she was to see her. We hid in the shadows to be close — skin to skin — to love without thinking of consequences.
But there are always consequences.
Fighting to remain in her life as a demoted figment of a sentient being, I clung to the title of “best friend,” and amongst the loss and shame and hurt of dealing with a drug addict for a mother, the intensity of the workload for classes, and a woman I would never be first to, I began drinking.
I lost myself because I only wanted to find myself with her.
And in the end, I had to realize there was no US. There never could be. She had safety in someone else — she always would have. And I would go back to the shadows alone.
We would not be that happy couple, smiling during dramatic throwback arguments, and married by 30 years of age.
I had to swallow my pride. I had to move on. It took sixteen years before I recognized my worth — sixteen years.
Tunde could recognize this sooner than that.
As a Black bisexual woman, Tunde’s story speaks to me
I know I am not alone in this. After Tunde is stopped (for what, had not been disclosed, but one can quickly gather it is racial profiling — the hideous culprit) by two White police officers when he is on his way to Soren’s birthday party. Watching it as it played out, I immediately knew what would come next.
A gunshot. A fatally wounded Black man. Dead. Why? He was reaching for his cell phone.
The fear of being pulled over by police officers for many of us who are Black and trying to live is real. I am always eyeing my rearview mirror. I tense up when I pass by a squad car. I say quick, breath prayers and move past them as carefully as I can.
I could feel every gunshot as they flew toward his torso. I teared up, watching him fall to the ground.
And every single day, Tunde relives his death, but in a way that many young Black people have died years prior to the inception of this film.
One moment that stands out for me is when he meets Soren’s father, Alfred O’Connor, who is a television host centered on his ill-informed beliefs and says to him, “You have a television show,” and he shakes his head. This comment comes after they have discussed Alfred stating his words and expressions can label him as a racist or a bigot, and he seems to not have a voice in the world.
Ironic, right? He’s a television host with his own show. His voice is louder than many of ours.
The Obituary of Tunde Johnson creeps in, strips itself naked, and rains down on all of us the pain of what it feels like to live while Black and queer in the United States of America.
It puts on screen the sort of looping coverage Black communities go through regularly, watching unarmed Black folks die at the hands of police on the news or social media time after time. — Mikelle Street, Out Magazine, February, 2021
I thought I had moved on. I really did.
And I imagine, some of you, should you opt to watch this movie, will find bits and pieces of your life tangled up in it as well. I thought I had buried enough of that part of my life away that I would not allow the tears to fall.
Sure, I have written many poems for this woman — she was, and I will bet, still is amazing. But, those are fleeting moments — visiting for a few minutes here and there, and then they find their hiding place once again.
But watching this movie and leaning into the depths of Tunde’s reaction after every death silenced me. I sat with my heart in my hands, my mouth agape, and my soul on pause.
We die many deaths while living and we are expected to bounce back from these deaths continually.
Some of us are walking, unhealed calluses of ourselves, never to recover, yet they advise us to shape up or ship out. The proverbial ship will set sail without us.
Maybe I needed this, though. Maybe I had to be reminded of my past, from something that is present, and probably will be a part of my future in order to fully heal.
To be Black (and queer) and alive in America is a death sentence
Babatunde Adesola Johnson knows this, and with every death, he died, he had been given a chance to remain alive in the end.
To think of those who did not survive, will not survive, and have yet to become a statistic, my prayer is that we defy the odds.
autumn is still in the infant stages, but I can feel the pull of old things being made new, and I wonder if you’ve found work in the industry you’d be applying to for nearly a decade.
I want to tell you I’m still searching, but that is a lie. I have discovered peace in this section of the medical field after twenty years, and there are better opportunities ahead.
there is a woman who speaks about authenticity and showing up in spaces where empathy no longer has a seat, and I can’t help but be reminded of your strong voice and approach to all things beautiful & just.
I am working on creating a better me; therapy, stories, and soldiering onward with a senior dog who still has the right amount of sass to suss out things and people who don’t belong around us anymore.
we built a rocky foundation on poetry and kinship, and I am still out here using words to clear my head. how much of this is work and how much of it is pleasure?
another autumn is here — I’m greeting it with old eyes and sketchy thoughts. but it’s here, nonetheless.
A Cornered Gurl 
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