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.
Topher Brocklin stood there, weary-eyed and unfocused on the serious issue building before him. Had he seen Tess or Daphne earlier at all? Did either of them clock in? He scratched his oily head as if to unearth the answer.
“Well, officer … I — I can’t says I have.”
“You can’t say or you don’t know, Topher. Topher Brocklin? Those are two different things, you know?”
“I mean … I don’t recall. I can’t remember.”
Tamara huffed out an exasperated sigh and just shook her head. The officers stood there, flummoxed by the situation unfolding right before them. And the strange old man cried.
Just as the first tear fell, the shadow reappeared.
Officers Bends and Dibbs direct Topher Brocklin to the motel’s lobby. With what could be Tess’s hair sample bagged and tagged, they needed to know where she lives. Topher shuffles his Oompa Loompa’d body back to the lobby hurriedly. The intensity of what could be a harsh issue for the motel settled in his system unwantedly. Officer Dibbs has the first words since they exited the family’s room.
“We gon’ run this to the lab — have the forensics team flush this out. Run it through the database and see if we get any hits. We need a sample of Tess’s hair — DNA purposes and all.”
Topher searches for his address book and lunges toward the desk phone.
“I think I should be the one to call her . . . I mean — I think . . . this could end up being a lot for her. She ain’t the brightest of the three, but I can’t imagine how torn up something like this would make her.”
Officers Dibbs and Bends stare at each other intently. Both think the same thing, but only one will say it. Bends begins . . .
“Now, Topher, if Tess is the one that’s got herself into this mess, how you reckon us confronting her with the possibility of committing this crime is going to be too much for her? If she’s our gal — I highly doubt that.”
“Tess couldn’t do something like this. Had it been Daphne’s hair, I’d probably lean toward an ‘Oh, I can see that,’ but Tess?! She is quieter than a church mouse — lives with her aunt, Hazel, and their three cats, attends Sunday service religiously — both of’em, and has never missed a day of work. I just . . . this ain’t her.”
Officers Dibbs and Bends get the green light from the lab — Tess Lynne Windermere is in their criminal database — but from fifteen years ago. An arson, second-degree charge from back in her high school days. A sample of Tess’s hair isn’t necessary now — they have their proof. The two officers zip over to Tess’s house to make the arrest.
Tamara and Dale say their goodbyes to Topher and they head up the road to find another place to rest for the duration of the night. It is 3:00 AM, and the children have been asleep in their car for the last two hours. The family has had their fill and wants to be done with this town and the creepiness within it.
Dibbs bangs on the door of Tess’s home. Outside are three squad cars, including theirs, and four other officers. Each of them stands armed and dangerous, yet scared shitless after hearing about the story and the weird shadow.
Tess’s Aunt Hazel is the first to wake up. She slips on her robe, slides her feet into her slippers, and shuffles quickly to the door. Tess isn’t too far behind her.
“Who is it?! This time of mornin’, ain’t nobody out but trouble or the devil or both. Ain’t nothing godly comin’ at my door at this time! Who is it?!”
Officers Dibbs and Bends shout in unison . . .
“This is the Bloomfield Police, ma’am. Open the door! We’re here for Tess Windermere!”
Aunt Hazel turns her head sheepishly toward her impish niece, sucks her teeth, and unbolts the door.
Dibbs flashes a shiny pair of handcuffs before her eyes as soon as the door opens. He fancies himself a wrangler of sorts with the small contraptions and is eager to slap them on Tess’s wrists. Bends announces the Miranda rights to the air as if he’s singing them as a celebration. Officer Dibbs clamps the handcuffs onto Tess’s hands and smiles sinisterly in her direction.
“You are under arrest for the murder of one Magda Kowalski. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”
Tess looks around the room, stares into her aunt’s eyes — sighs heavily — cries into the thick air, “I knew you were comin’. I just didn’t know when.”
Officer Beau Dibbs and Officer Clive Bends escort Tess away from her home, each hanging on to one of her arms, the handcuffs clinging in sync with their footsteps.
The three of them headed toward the arresting officers’ squad car, and the entourage readied themselves to follow behind them.
Bends gently guides Tess into the backseat, checks the handcuffs one more time, and closes the door.
As he turns away from Tess, she winks at the shadow sitting next to her and smiles.
I’ve known them for over two years and have never seen them
Photo of my plants: Dora, Jupiter, and our newcomer, Lyric. Photo collage credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
On Saturday, December 03, 2022, I had the lovely opportunity to meet part of my work family. Yes, I said, “family.” I mean it. I’ve shared some harsh and intense days in radiology scheduling with these individuals.
We have a hard job — one that attempts to pummel us daily, but we all band together to provide support, guidance, understanding, and love to each other. I spend the bulk of my weekdays with them virtually (we work from home) and some of my Saturdays. These are my people. My family.
I have no shame in saying it. None at all.
Our direct supervisor has been trying to plan an outing for us to meet for what seems like forever, but this time, it happened. And I could not be happier.
BBQ can bring people together
One day, amidst a crazy scheduling day of the week, we all received an email including a poll on where we’d like to go and a selection of dates for when we’d like to meet.
Most of us chose yesterday and a city that is halfway between Winston-Salem and Charlotte, North Carolina. Our supervisor mentioned the barbeque spot, The Smoke Pit, and we were “all in for the win!”
This was my first outing to a restaurant to sit down and eat since before the pandemic began.
I was anxious. I was terrified. I almost backed out. But I am glad I did not.
My plate of food. Burned ends, fried okra, macaroni-n-cheese, and cornbread. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
When I arrived, only one of my team members was there. She was still sitting in her truck. I had questioned the restaurant staff about our party and no one had been inside or seated yet.
Anxiety continued to mount.
I knew everyone was on the way, but try telling that to my nerves. I decided not to pace in front of the establishment and walked over to my team member’s truck.
She had stated in our group’s text message she had already been there parked in the car lot. She was easy to spot.
We went in, grabbed a table, and waited for everyone else to arrive.
There is nothing like good food to usher in a good time. As you can see, the meal I had was not only picture-worthy, but it was satisfying as well.
Barbecue can do that. It has the power to bring people together.
Original abstract artwork by Lindilu Q, she’s also on Instagram. Photo collage by Tremaine L. Loadholt
Sharing smiles, games, and enjoying each other’s presence
Aside from the delicious food, there was a numbers game that included original paintings by one of my co-workers as gifts.
We did about three rounds of this game, and I took four different paintings home. I am going to give two of them to my mother (not pictured above).
We shared stories that involved incidents at work, how we feel about our new phone system, and missing supervisors and co-workers who have left us for other opportunities.
Our presence in this space drew attention from other customers, but we did not care. We had not seen each other or had congregated on this level in over two years, and having a blast was on the agenda.
A definite blast was had.
I conquered my fear, and it was worth it
For a little over two years, I had not sat down in a restaurant among other patrons to eat and enjoy a meal or conversation with anyone. I have placed orders with various eateries I love, selected the option for delivery or pickup, and casually went about my life.
I had a small meeting with one of my co-workers at a favorite coffee spot of mine nearly three months ago. Besides us, there were probably four to five other people in that small space. I also met up with Sherry Kappel for lunch at a spot that served patrons (and their dogs) outside a few months back as well. Neither was as overwhelming as this event nor did they send my nerves into overdrive.
This experience was a leap into something I now know I can do — I faced my fear of heading back into the “wild.”
And being with a group of people who I laugh, cry, and vent with every single workday was more than worth it.
Our supervisor not only paid for the holiday meet-up but also gave each of us a Croton houseplant (I’ve named mine “Lyric”), Christmas candy, and positive affirmations (at least 30 of them in a decorative jar). She showered us with love, just as she does every single day.
Sometimes family doesn’t have to have the same blood coursing through their veins as you. Sometimes family is who you choose and who chooses you.
My neighbor is moving. It appears I say that phrase now more than I care to. Since the rent has increased in my apartment complex for many of us by $115.00 to $250.00 (depending on the type of unit you are leasing), the choice to leave is easier than the choice to stay. Some have found their new homes in cities right outside ours — shifting from one county to the next.
They are doing this, from the outside looking in, without fear — without a pressing feeling to remain planted where they are — without wondering what they will do in the next town.
She lives (lived) across the breezeway — directly from my unit on the third floor. She is soft-spoken, sweet, and very much a talker. She cannot remember Jernee’s name, and oddly enough, I have not been able to remember hers. But I have “Yes, ma’amed” and “No ma’amed” her for nearly five years and I do not want her to move.
And this is a dilemma of mine — fear of change — of adjusting to the differences that lie ahead. My therapist says, “You just have to run straight through it, Tre. It may not be as bad as you think it will be.” And I know she’s right — I know she has seen more than I have — I pay her for her expertise and the connection we have built over the last three years.
Back to my neighbor. I will miss her sunshiny presence, but I am happy she will have a new beginning. She is excited about the move — about the city where she will be living. She found a place for senior citizens that will cost her $275.00 less than what she was paying at our apartment complex.
And as she told me this a couple of weeks ago to prepare me for the move, I couldn’t help but say, “Look at God. He found a place for you that isn’t too far, and is also less expensive.”
She smiled at me and said, “And He will do the same for you, too.”
And while I believe her, I both want to leave this place and I don’t want to leave this place, and if I do, the mountains are calling me — they are calling me home to them.
Everyone is moving, the community will not be the same
This scares me — what keeps me inside most days and away from new people who do not exchange “Hellos” and “How are yous?” They are too busy walking briskly to the mailbox or shoving themselves into their cars to recognize one’s presence. They have some business to attend to, and you are not it — you’re a blip in their time zone, a speck to be brushed away at the right moment.
You could pass out in the middle of the street, and the one thing they would probably focus on as important is the color of your shoes or, even worse; the color of your skin.
The people in my building talk — we share our workdays with each other, our experiences. The people across from us and next to our building — it is the same. We have built up our community and look out for one another, and with all the new people moving in, I see less of this, and it hurts me — hurts me truly to my core.
I foresee it being more of a selfish thing, as they fill the vacant units to the brim with people simply looking for a place to stay and not a place in which to live. (Let that sink in for a moment.)
We are losing our elders. We are losing the single mothers who look forward to you wrangling their kids along for them. We are losing men willing to shovel your hatchback compact vehicle out of your parking space after an overnight snowfall.
And I am not settling well with this at all. But I guess I will have to, and soon.
She’s not gone just yet, but she will be
She tells me she is paying rent at her current place and the new place because her lease is not up until January. The catch is, if she did not jump on signing the lease with the senior citizens’ spot, she was going to lose her unit there. Her sons can help her these last two months — they will help her.
I say, as pleasantly as I can, “I understand that. You had to get to it while the getting was good.” She smiles and shakes her head in agreement. She then tells me, “So, I’ll be back. You’ll see me coming in and out — cleaning up — getting the place in order. I’m not gone just yet.”
And a small piece of my heart releases the strain it automatically pressed upon me.
I always wonder who my next neighbor will be when someone moves. Will they be kind? Will they be considerate? Will they understand we live in an apartment building and not their own home with a backyard and all their customized trimmings?
We live in threaded chapters, turning the pages of each other’s books
When the day comes that she says her last goodbye, I want to have a housewarming gift for her — something she will look upon and remember me and Jernee. I am having a hard time figuring out what that should be, but I know I will select the right thing at the right time.
We live in threaded chapters — connected by time and space and community. Some of us are more apt to pick up each other’s books and turn the pages and learn something about each person as we move forward.
And as I look up from my laptop, I see another moving truck back in. Two people exit and then pull up the truck’s door. The bed of the truck is empty.
I think to myself, “Who is moving now” and I close my blinds and shake my head.
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.
People have been “misgendering” me before calling it out was a thing.
I carry a “male” name; one that typically appears before I do.
I cannot tell you how many times I have said, “But I am a woman,” or “It’s actually Tree•Maine.” If I had a dollar … You know the rest.
I’ve lived a life of correcting people about who I am and how I exist before I was old enough to vote. Before I was old enough to sort out who respected me vs. who just wanted to enunciate two syllables the way they wanted to.
There is no patience in learning one’s name or the person tasked with enduring it until the grave embraces them; not in this country.
Here is something I’ll share for free; if a person asks you to pronounce their name correctly, do it.
If a person asks you to use their nickname, do it. (Chances are, they’re tired of correcting you.)
If you have assumed the person is whatever gender you’ve envisioned for them before meeting them because you thought their name will lend you someone else, “That is a YOU problem.”
Fix it. Today.
**An earlier version of this piece appeared via ACG’s Instagram “stories.”Published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
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