“Even though I never view myself as being white, I never view myself as being black either.”

While our storytellers rehearse their brand new stories, in preparation for Black Stories Matter: Truth to Power, taking place on June 21st at 7:30pm, we’re diving into TMI Project’s archive. Kesai Riddick’s story about family and his unique upbringing debuted in TMI Project’s original Black Stories Matter production in 2017. Kesai was raised by his white mom in the East Village. He missed having his dad around to model what it meant to be a black man. Luckily his uncle became like a surrogate father and introduced him to Buddhism and the concept of “Nam-myoho-renge-kyo” which eventually helped reunite Kesai with his dad in adulthood.

Meet Kesai:

TMI Project presents
Black Stories Matter: Truth to Power

About Black Stories Matter

Black Stories Matter is TMI Project’s way of making an impact in addressing incidents of hate, bigotry and racial injustice in our local community while also participating as an organization in the national outcry of injustice. TMI Project’s mission with Black Stories Matter is to elevate the underrepresented stories of the Black experience in America – the full spectrum – the triumphs, humor, beauty, and resilience.

Black Stories Matter workshop leader Dara Lurie takes us inside an intergenerational storytelling workshop

– Dara (she/her)

TMI Project’s Intergenerational Black Stories Matter Workshop took place on February 17th, a brisk, beautiful Sunday afternoon, at the A.J. Meyers-Williams African Roots Library in the historic Ponckhokie Kingston neighborhood.

Turnout was exceptional – there were 17 participants ranging in ages from the youngest at 14 to the eldest being as library director, Odell Winfield, put it, ‘of the ‘50’s generation.’

My co-facilitator, Micah (he/him) and I sat in the middle of the long table constructed of 3 or more tables placed end to end. Just as we were about to get started, Shawaine Davis (she/her), one of the Black Stories Matter Storytellers from Kingston High School arrived with several friends.

In 2018, the original cast of Black Stories Matter, myself included, performed for all 2,000 Kingston High School students. Hearing our stories inspired Shawaine, along with eight other students to participate in the first-ever teen version of a Black Stories Matter workshop culminating in a performance at the Kingston High School.  

Shawaine was not particularly outspoken when she showed up to her first workshop session last year but she was determined to tell her story. And tell her story she did, with a vengeance.  

The first line of Shawaine’s story reads:

‘Lord give me patience because if you give me strength, there’s no telling what I might do,’

and it only gets better from there.

On this afternoon nearly a year later, Shawaine strode into the library with an air of purpose.  Having been through the process of finding and telling her story, she seemed to be encouraging her friends to do the same. They all took seats at the far end of the table and quickly settled in.

Micah outlined the idea of the workshop – that black stories come in all shapes and sizes – they are as varied and diverse as the people who embody them. “If you’re a black person writing about learning to tie your shoelaces, that’s a black story,” Micah joked. The truth underlying his joke is that we are all ready to expand beyond the ‘stock’ or expected stories of blackness that always define us in terms of struggle and oppression. It’s time to uncover the beautiful, complex and surprising counter-stories of black American creativity and resilience.  

And that’s what everyone at this table had come to do, explore the real stories from their lives, listen to the stories of others around the table and learn something new about their own perspective.

The 14 –17 and 20-something crowd was seated to my left, with the age gradually rising into the 30’s, 40’s and beyond at the other end of the table. True inter-generational representation.

As we do in all TMI project workshops, we offered prompts to help participants focus their thoughts. Some of the prompts offered for this workshop included:   

How racism has affected your self-esteem, social status, physical or mental health.

Another prompt:

What you love about being black and/ or black culture.

Some used the prompts and others wrote freestyle about an experience that had profoundly shaped their life.  

Patterns emerged from diverse stories. One young man wrote that despite his experiences of being bullied in school, he continues to value himself, knowing that he is someone who has a lot of love to give. He also affirmed his determination to sharpen his basketball game.

Another participant, also a student at the Kingston High School, addressed a person who has bullied her, writing: ‘Go ruin someone else’s day, boo boo…’

At the other end of the table, a woman wrote about bullying that she’s experienced working in the corporate world. This kind of bullying came in more subtle forms of disrespect from colleagues that worsened as she gained greater power within the organization.

Yet another participant wrote about the challenges of parenting biracial children.

We had time for two rounds of writing and sharing. Three or four participants raised a hand to read something out loud during each of these segments. We reminded everyone of a TMI workshop rule: No negative preamble. This sets a tone and an understanding that we are all there, taking turns as writers and audience, to affirm, support and encourage each other in this amazing process of discovering our true stories.

At one point during the workshop, looking in either direction, I felt that I was seeing a beautiful landscape of the faces and stories assembled at the table. These two hours felt like a sacred moment.  It occurred to me that each person at the table had come to add their piece to a collective history that is just now beginning to be written.

I thought about the experiences the Kingston High School students wrote and shared in workshop – stories of being told ‘you don’t speak black’ or ‘you don’t act black,’ stories about being judged for their hair or complexion, constantly being reminded that as a black person you are always under a critical white gaze. I remembered my amazement, realizing that in the four decades since my own teen years, racism really hasn’t changed at all.

As Audre Lorde wrote:

‘At a quarter to eight Mean Time, we were telling the same stories, over and over and over…’

Or, maybe something is changing. When I was their age, no one asked me what it felt like growing up as a biracial person. I had no one to speak with about my experiences.  These students were not only able to articulate their stories, but they also got up on stage and told their stories. And they weren’t alone. They were part of a group of storytellers each one risking vulnerability to bring their truth to light.  

Something I know from my own life is that black people are a diverse & resilient people. With a little bit of space and encouragement to tell our stories, we’ll make them better, clearer and more powerful as we bring them into resonance with a collective understanding that’s emerging.

At one point in the workshop, one of the participants took a deep breath and began ‘What happened was….’

In the same instant, Micah and I looked at each other with big smiles.

We knew we had just found another prompt!

– Dara Lurie, TMI Project Workshop Facilitator

Black Stories Matter goes National with its First-ever Intergenerational Performance

“Black Stories Matter reinforced that we can see one another’s humanity through stories and conversation. It was incredible connecting, loving, humanizing. Inspiring!”  – Abe Young

Last Saturday’s first-ever intergenerational performance of Black Stories Matter was powerful and transformative. With nearly 400 audience members at The Pointe Church in Kingston, NY and over 1,000 live stream views, we are thrilled to report that we’re reaching more communities than ever with these important and timely stories.


In addition, 10 groups from the Hudson Valley and around the country (National Afro-American Museum and Cultural Center in Ohio, Museum of the African Diaspora in San Francisco, Xavier University of Louisiana in New Orleans, Art Peacemakers in MA, Showing Up for Racial Justice in Eugene, OR and more) joined us by hosting live stream viewing parties!

Special thanks to our workshop leaders Micah (he/him) and Dara Lurie (she/her), our brave and bold storytellers for sharing their truths, and to Radio Kingston for making Black Stories Matter accessible to all via live stream.

“We read stories, articles, the news, books about racism, but nothing makes these issues real like people sharing their stories.” – Amanda Sisenstein


Bring the stories and conversation to your org, school, or party by signing up as a host. The live streamed Black Stories Matter: Stories from Across Generations performance and Q & A as well as our Viewing & Discussion Guide are available on demand.

Click here to watch the recorded live stream on Facebook anytime

Partner Organizations

Funders

Black Stories Matter is made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew M. Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

A Conversation with TMI Project’s Black Stories Matter Workshop Leaders Dara Lurie and Micah

TMI Project staff recently read Ijeoma Oluo’s So You Want to Talk About Race. Why do you think race is such a tricky topic?

M: The concept of race is one of the greatest tricks that we’ve ever fallen for. It was designed to make sure the minority who had power kept that power. If all poor people realize how much they have in common, the power structure will change. Racism was created to say to the poor, white person, “Hey, you’re better than those black people.” It’s based on economics and power. And so the whole thing unravels if you talk about it. Not just race as a system of oppression, but all power structures unravel if you tease out this question of, “Who has power and why?”

D: If you’re black or a person of color, it’s not hard to talk about it. That is all we ever think and talk about to ourselves. “What the f**k is going on?” is what we’ve been saying as long as I’ve been around. It’s that secret conversation you have among other people of color or with a few trusted white friends. But it’s not something you ever bring out into the wider discourse.  Because the conversation always devolves into, “Who pays for things? I didn’t do anything wrong. Why should I be responsible?”

Above: TMI Project Workshop Leaders Dara Lurie (she/her) and Micah (he/him) teaching a Black Stories Matter workshop to students at Kingston High School.

In your opinion, how can we use initiatives like Black Stories Matter to tackle systemic racism within our systems of power? Aka: How can we take something that’s so emotionally-charged and turn it into policy change?

D: I’m reading the book My Grandmother’s Hands right now. The author Resmaa Menakem is a somatic therapist, and he talks about the trauma that was “blown into the African bodies by the white colonizers and slave owners.” But also the trauma that white refugees from Europe brought with them. They brought punitive systems from England where people were taken to the gallows, lynched and flogged. This unmetabolized trauma was held within the European settlers who then blew it into enslaved Africans. Menakem says the solution to systemic racism is within the body. That resonates with me. It needs to be felt in the body – and storytelling is one way we reach that understanding.

M: I understand the desire to answer questions like, “What more can we do? What are the next steps?” But the simple power of saying “Black Stories Matter” should not be underestimated. I was talking about it with my son [Gopal Harrington] today because he’s going to read at the Stories from Across Generations show on February 16th, and he said, “My story’s not a black story.” And I said, “You’re black. And you have a story. Therefore, it matters.” That’s what we mean when we say “Black Stories Matter.” We’re saying, “Here’s my black story, here’s how I was impacted by race, here’s what a racist said to me.” It doesn’t matter if your story is about tying your shoes. Your story matters because you’re alive and all black stories matter.

D: The statement “Black Stories Matter” is a statement that nobody’s saying because history has told us that black stories don’t matter. And we’ve all believed it.

M: We all think, “Nobody wants to hear my story.” White. Black. Whatever. But there’s that extra layer for those of us who are black. We recently had to change venues for Stories Across Generations to accommodate more audience members due to demand. So a bunch of white people are effectively saying, “We do want to hear black stories because Black Stories Matter.” We’re changing the narrative, and it’s hard to believe that all these people actually want to come out and hear us tell our black stories. That shit blows my mind.

I read this article the other day, “All black stories matter, not just ones in struggle,” and this resounds so much with what you’re talking about.

D: We’re not looking to tell stock stories of blackness. That’s been done enough.

M: What it boils down to is this: I don’t know the full answer to your question. We should be holding it loosely anyway. TMI Project is naturally evolving. We’re working with high school students, we’re going digital, we’re expanding. If the issue at hand is how we share power, relinquish power, take power, then we’re doing it right because we are collectively figuring out how to share this power and where the Black Stories Matter initiative organically goes next.

This just makes me wonder: what can participants expect of the upcoming Black Stories Matter storytelling workshop on February 17th (the day after Stories from Across Generations)?

D: TMI Project has a really strong methodology and approach to helping people find where their stories are hiding. Some people come in with ideas, and that might be part of the puzzle, but with the writing prompts and exploration, they figure out the rest. Don’t expect to know your story when you first arrive. The workshop opens pathways for people to find their stories, whether they’re coming from a sense of knowing, a sense of curiosity or a sense of yearning.

M: There are a wide range and breadth of stories, not just ones of struggle. At its heart is the fact that all people who aren’t white men have, in some way or shape or form, at some point, been made to feel less than human. It’s important that we connect to the parts of people’s stories that are human and universal. For black people taking this workshop, they can expect to experience a methodology that will help them tell their story. Whatever it is. Because most of our stories are wrapped up in shame, fear–

D: –anger, and guilt–

M: — and guilt. It helps to have somebody else hold a space for you so you can get your story out there. And black people, especially those in the Hudson Valley, don’t have that many spaces. So this workshop will be that space.

Black Stories Matter in Academia: My Journey from the Projects to NYU

Tameka Ramsey (she/her), Black Stories Matter program director

This story is presented as part of a series of true narratives collected for TMI Project’s Black Stories Matter initiative. 

Out of 232 four year public schools studied over 10 years, 53 percent saw gaps between black and white students either stay the same or increase, resulting in a growing gap between the numbers of black and white students who graduate. ​Moreover, nearly one-third of the colleges and universities that improved graduation rates overall actually saw graduation rates for black students remain flat or decline.

In the of fall 1994 I took the E train from a rundown basement apartment in Jamaica, Queens to attend my first day at New York University. At 19, I graduated from SUNY Delhi with an associates degree, a 3.8 average and multiple scholarships.

Since I grew up in the projects in Brooklyn, SUNY Delhi legitimately felt like it was in the middle of nowhere BUT the student body was 15% black and primarily from inner cities. The entire student body hovered somewhere around 3,000. Black students found each other easily and formed a community that frankly felt identical to the one I’d left. We even mostly all lived in a dorm affectionately nicknamed “the projects.” So, yeah, there were some issues even within a culturally diverse student body. But ironically, 170 miles from home, in what often felt like a town where people were outnumbered by cows I experienced almost NO culture shock. A life spent in NYC’s public education system had prepared me for an environment where the faculty and staff were 99% white. I joined the black student union. We went to “black” events on other campuses. We sat together in the dining hall.

Going to college and living on campus at Delhi for two years was great, but I wanted to come home to the city I was determined to conquer. SO, when I was accepted as a transfer student to NYU, I was excited, even though that meant living at home again. Or so I thought.

That summer I arrived back home, my single mother and I were evicted from our one bedroom apartment in the projects. My mother sat me down in our living room and announced that she and her boyfriend had tried to find a two bedroom apartment so I could continue living with her, but they couldn’t. So together, they were moving into a one bedroom apartment in Far Rockaway, Queens (emphasis on the word FAR). Here were my options: Sleep on the couch and commute two hours a day each way into the city for classes or figure something else out. I became an adult that day.

The summer that I should have been preparing for two years of rigor at one of the best colleges in the country, I was scrambling to figure out where I was going to live. I remember walking into my first political science class, under an inordinate amount of stress, unusual for an NYU college student. When I arrived, I stood frozen in the doorway looking at a sea of 125 white faces. The average class size at Delhi was 30.

NYU tried to support me via the HEOP program but it was almost like trying to connect through a distortion field. Everyone was white. Everything outside of the HEOP office was structurally set up to support a specific kind of student that came from a specific background – white, middle to upper class, steeped in “American” culture (i.e. white). All of my professors were white, all of the administrators, counselors, etc. and I had not fully honed my code switching skills yet.

Occasionally, I still presented as, “standing at the bus stop sucking on a lollipop”. “Don’t get it twisted, imma blow this midterm up”, in response to my professor’s concern that I might be juggling too much. He looked at me like I had two heads.

NYU’s black student population was 4%. Four percent of 50,000 students. I knew there were other black people… somewhere. But I had NO idea where to find them. Nothing in the NYU culture was for me. What the hell was a “Spring Break”? For my peers, a ruckus trip to party in Cancun. For me, an opportunity to work overtime. Networking? Not much of that to be done at my job at Burlington Coat Factory.

I felt too ashamed to explain what I was going through to what felt like a composite of well meaning but completely foreign white people. In my family, you didn’t “spread your business” with people you didn’t trust. And for the most part, you didn’t trust white people.

It would have been easy to blame my mother entirely for putting me in this situation but the reality is that our lives and the lives of all people of color are shaped by the class and race construct by which we live.

A few years before I started college, my mom, tired of being passed over for promotions for a decade in favor or white people with less experience, sued Brookdale hospital for discrimination. It was settled out of court when it became clear that she would win, but the settlement was barely sufficient and my mom had to agree to leave her job in order to accept it. What if my mother had been given those promotions and we’d moved up from working poor to middle class? Maybe she would have made different choices. Maybe she would have bought a house. Maybe I would have started college with a place to live.

Two years became 2.5 years. Then three. Then 3.5. I dropped out then re-registered. Then dropped out and re-registered again. I had to transfer to the continuing education division to work full-time so I could escape the basement apartment in Queens where unbeknownst to me, people were breaking into my apartment and stealing my belongings.

Most importantly, I had a pervasive feeling that I just didn’t belong. Graduation seemed more like some amorphous and unrealistic brass ring. I felt like the other students were in on something that I just couldn’t and would never understand and I was growing depressed.

As a community, we cannot ignore the impact that race has on the probability of success in higher education or the fact that our higher education system, along with all of our bedrock systems, set up a biased foundation. Our stories are unique and our struggle is real.

We need to start talking about how to create cultural environments that allows students of color to thrive. And in order to do that, we have to hear the stories of the lives that are impacted to foster understanding across the chasm.

To that end, TMI Project is bringing Black Stories Matter to Bard College! On April 4th, we present inspiring true stories and monologues about Black people surviving and thriving in the Hudson Valley– both for the school community and for the general public.

Performances will be followed by a panel discussion, which will allow the audience to tackle hard questions around race, identity and community. Black Stories Matter @ Bard College is open to the public ($20), and all local college students are encouraged to attend for FREE.

Reflecting on a year of Black Stories Matter and what lies ahead

#blackstoriesmatter performance 2017

Tameka Ramsey (she/her)

#blackstoriesmatter performance 2017

One year ago today, on Martin Luther King Day, Eva and I launched TMI Project’s Black Stories Matter initiative at the Hudson Valley Writers Resist in Woodstock, NY.

In true TMI Project fashion, I’ll be transparent; we didn’t know we were launching anything! We knew that we had a platform through TMI Project and that in the wake of Trayvon (and Eric, and Dante and Sandra, and…) that we wanted to use that platform to amplify the voices and stories of Black people in America, and specifically in our own community.

So over the course of 6 months, Eva, Sari and I worked with a group of committed writers to craft the Black Stories Matter inaugural show. Rev. James Child at the Pointe of Praise Church in Kingston, NY agreed to host us and the show debuted on March 25, 2017. We hoped for an audience of 200, maybe 300 if we were lucky, and 600 of you showed up to watch the Brooklyn Technical High School all girls step team perform and eleven writers read deeply personal stories about the richness and complexities of their lives.

That evening was the true start of Black Stories Matter as a TMI Project initiative. In the year since, we’ve developed a few projects that carry and extend the original production: we’re working with the Kingston Public High School to to develop a teen version of Black Stories Matter. And in the Fall of 2017, we collaborated with Historic Huguenot Street to create and perform Reclaiming Our Time, written, in part, during an overnight stay in enslaved people’s quarters in New Paltz. Now, one year later, I’m excited to announce that I’m officially coming onboard to work with TMI Project as the Black Stories Matter Program Director!

“I am convinced that men hate each other because they fear each other. They fear each other because they don’t know each other, and they don’t know each other because they don’t communicate with each other, and they don’t communicate with each other because they are separated from each other.” Dr. Martin Luther King

What is Black Stories Matter and why are we doing it?

Black Stories Matter is TMI Project’s way of making an impact in addressing incidents of hate, bigotry and racial injustice in our local community while also participating as an organization in the national outcry of injustice. In alignment with TMI Project’s mission to empower people and bring about change through true storytelling, Black Stories Matter seeks to raise awareness around issues of inequality and injustice through true storytelling and amplification of the voices of those who have inspiring stories to share about black people surviving–and thriving–in the Hudson Valley and throughout the United States. We aim to provide audiences the opportunity to listen, expand their awareness, possibly identify internalized racism or uncover unintentionally racists points of view. This heightened awareness will enable audience members to replace biased belief systems with informed knowledge, deepened compassion and an active commitment to work for justice for all.

What’s next for Black Stories Matter?

This year we’re focused on creating true stories that will deepen the listener’s ability to feel empathy and compassion; programming that will ignite the humanity of the audience (our readers, after all, are already human) around issues of race in America and how that manifests in our own community. In addition to performing the show with the original cast at both Bard and the Kingston African American Library, we are expanding the programming to include facilitated community discussions so that we can work through and face the problems caused by systemic racism and segregation together.

We wish there were no need for an initiative like Black Stories Matter, but events like Charlotteville clearly demonstrate the need to combat ignorance with truth. These stories and so many more that are reflections of Black life in America, past and present, must be shared and amplified. Especially in our own community, where segregation (and the insidious redlining that enables it) is as alive here as it is in everywhere in America.

So on this Martin Luther King Day, one year to the day that Eva and I stood on stage in Woodstock and announced our intention to create Black Stories Matter, we’re pledging our renewed commitment to working hard in 2018 to create and support the development and amplification of Black stories through our platform.

  • Tameka Ramsey, TMI Project

Kevin Barron

(he/him)

One of the most difficult times of my life was listening to the guilty verdict in my wife’s trial, watching her taken away in handcuffs, and then having to tell my five children ages 2, 5, 7, 10, and 20 that their mother would not be home for a very long time, which turned out to be nearly ten years.

I immediately had to shift my focus to the care of my children and how I would manage that without my wife. I had to assure my wife that there would be no lapse in their education, healthcare, clothing, and food needs. I had to be there for them emotionally and psychologically.

Because we no longer had my wife’s salary we had to sell our house that we worked so hard to purchase. We had to move twice; once to her mother’s house and then to my mother’s house. Even though we appreciated the accommodations the conditions were not the best.

The trips to visit my wife were both joyful and stressful. There was joy in seeing her but the pain of her not being able to come home with us was extraordinary. At one point, for no apparent reason she was transferred nearly six hours away to another facility far from me and our children. The visits were stressful due to the waiting and searching procedures (two times the kids and I were randomly selected for drug searches, during which in further humiliation, tape and a sticky roller was used to run over our clothes, money, and footwear in search of drug residue), the restrictions, the bad vending machine food, and the high cost of purchasing the food.

We were blessed to have support from family, friends, and church members. Most families of the incarcerated don’t have this support. When my wife was finally released there was an adjustment period for her and for us. It took her over a year to find work, and because of crowded conditions we still weren’t able to live together until we found an apartment of our own. Thankfully, today we are a united family again under one roof. I have great admiration for my wife and children. They showed courage, love, and resilience throughout the whole situation.

My heart goes out to all families of incarcerated loved ones who are often neglected and forgotten. I can only imagine how hard it is for those who don’t have a base of support, which is why I will be participating in the March for Justice from Harlem to Albany to raise awareness about the inhumanity and the injustice that is taking place in our criminal justice system.

WandaLynn

(she/her)

Growing up, mom gives Meme, Eddie, Jessy and Hicri her attention and cares for them. Me, I’m known as the ugly child. Not the beautiful one with the nice hair. No, I’m the smart one. I’m the “Black Bitch”.

I call my mother by her by her name, Alzonia. I don’t call her mom, because she doesn’t mother me; she doesn’t protect me, or show me love, or care for me. All she does is drink and then look for men to love her. We never have enough food, clothes or anything. I hate my mom and despise her weakness. I always want to ask her, “Why Mom?” I want to tell her how angry I am at her.

Now, she has Abe in the house. He fights with her and beats her. He gets fresh with me. One day I come into the house after mom has left to cash the monthly SS check, so it’s just me and Abe. I sit on the top of my bunk bed, rocking back and forth in fear. I daydream to soothe myself.

“One day I am going to meet a guy named Randall Grant and he is going to love me,” I tell myself.  “We’re both going to finish school and get married. He’s going to get a good job and have a lot of money; we are going to get married. I’m going to be special to him. He’s going to shower me with precious gifts and love.”

I hear Abe come into the kitchen. My self-soothing fairytale halts and I’m quickly filled with rage. I think, ”If he comes in the kitchen and takes his dick out again, I am going to cut it off.”

I enter the kitchen, pick up the big cutting knife by the stove, and begin patting it in the palm of my hand. I was right — Abe has his dick out of his pants. But when he sees the knife he puts it back in his pants and goes to the back room.

I head back to my top bunk bed thinking, I am so sick of this shit. I soothe myself again, rocking back and forth, daydreaming of marrying a Randall Grant. My daydreaming is interrupted when I hear my mom come back. I jump off the bed and run to her.

“Mom when you were out, Abe took his dick out again!” I shout. “Mom, do you hear me? You need to throw his ass out of the house!”

My mom replies, “Ah, Lynn, that’s nothing.”

She walks to the back room and my anger grows. I grab the bottle of Clorox and follow her.

I shout, “Mom, move out of the way!” and then throw the contents of the open bottle in Abe’s direction. Abe gets Clorox in his eyes.

I keep shouting, “I’m tired of this fucking bullshit, Mom. This motherfucker took out his dick. I keep telling you and you do nothing! I’m going to kill this motherfucker!” I am full of rage and know I have to leave this house — this house of no love, no protection, no care, nothing. I’d better leave before I kill someone.

Even though I’m only 15 years old, I do leave. I move into Covenant House in the East Village. That’s where I do the rest of my growing up.

Somehow, with no support, I manage to graduate high school and college, where I obtain my B.A in Psychology. After graduation, I work part-time in the bursar’s office at The New School for Social Research.

I see him come up to the counter. I’ve never been one to hide how I feel and while I process his registration, I say to him, ‘Wow! You are fine! What’s your name?” He just smiles at me. “Here, let me give you my number?” I say.

He calls me and invites me out. I tell him all about me and my life growing up on the Lower East Side, and he tells me all about growing up in Morocco.

We get married. We build a life together. We have four children. We don’t have much, but we take care of all of all the kids. I work hard to not be like Alzonia, making sure my children have a safe and loving upbringing.

But then, after 27 years of marriage, he throws away our history of trust, honesty, loyalty and friendship by getting involved with another woman. It really fucks up my self-esteem.

It never occurred to me that while I was working hard for the family, being a good, loyal Muslim wife, caring for our four children and supporting his endeavors, I had been sacrificing my career and ambitions. I was neglecting me.

He thinks because he controls the money, I’m going to stay. But my peace and my purpose in life are more important than anything. I leave amicably, relinquishing my power back to me.

I start to look for work. I have an interview scheduled, however I don’t have any clothes to wear. My clothes are in storage and my storage fees are overdue, so I can’t get them.

Luckily, someone refers me to Bottomless Closet. Not only do I get a full outfit for my interview, but they also assist with updating my resume and provide interview training. I take workshops in personal enrichment, professional development and financial planning.

I’m still legally homeless and unemployed, but I am happy. Now I know all the negligence and negative experiences made me the strong, compassionate, intelligent, powerful, courageous and determined woman that I am today. I’m full of resilience and work hard for what I want. I sometimes feel lonely but I don’t accept less than what I deserve. I’m living my life, my story, my way and it is possible in this world.

I may never find my Randall Grant, but today I know I am not alone. I am supported. I am loved. I am healed.

Zoe

(she/her)

Growing up, I’m Daddy’s little girl. I love when I’m with him and he sings to me. The song I request most often is “Scarlet Ribbons.”

When he and Mommy separate, I only get to see him on weekends. Friday quickly becomes the best day of the week for me. Mommy has remarried a white man named Bob Blair. It’s the 60s and the civil rights movement is well underway. He lives with us in an all-Black neighborhood. This is not an easy time for a white man and a black woman in an interracial marriage. Mommy works nights and Bob Blair works days, so when I get home from school it’s just Bob Blair, me, and my younger siblings alone with him.

For years, Monday through Thursday, when Bob Blair touches me, I quickly press an imaginary button in my head and turn on “Scarlett Ribbons” so I can focus on the song and tune out his alcohol-ridden breath and the disgusting odor of his sweaty body hair. I squeeze my eyes and thighs tightly shut, while wishing my Daddy would pick me up bearing a handful of those beautiful scarlett ribbons.

But, reality reveals itself anyway. No matter how hard I try to close off my entrance, Bob Blair always manages to pry my legs apart to invade it.  I try to hear Scarlet Ribbons again. I try to press the play button. But I can’t hear it anymore, not over his cruel words, delivered with stinking hot breath. “If you tell anyone,” he warns, “I am going to kill you Nigger! Then I am going to kill your mother and your father and make you an orphan.”

Years later, long after I’m out of the house and away from Bob Blair and his nasty ways, I’m still traumatized. Desperate to escape the lingering mental torture, I spend 21 years, from 1978-1999, smoking crack.

You can’t run from reality for that long without some serious consequences. By the end, my wardrobe consists of somebody’s stained trench coat, a Victoria’s Secret Teddy, some flip flops and a rag on my head. And, I think I look damn good.

I do nasty things with nasty people. I say “yes” when I want to say ‘no.” My own mother closes her door in my face, during one of the coldest winter nights ever, for fear that I’ll steal the heat. Eventually, I’m not Zoe anymore. I’m 99G0947, compliments of The Department Of Corrections.

During my mess, the only two people who love me unconditionally are my husband Bill and my best friend Quretta. No matter my condition, how bad I look or smell, they’re there for me. I get locked up for close to three years, but I won’t let anyone come visit me. I just write letters. I know I’m still sick in many ways, and I have already put my loved ones through enough.

On July 17th, 2001 I return to the world.  When I get out, the only thing I’m certain of is that I do not want to get high ever again.

But when I return to the world, Bill is gone. While I was locked up, he’d been sentenced to ten years. There’s no time to say goodbye, to engage in a long kiss, or make love one last time. I immediately make the decision to do every day of Bill’s sentence with him.

During the time Bill is in jail, my legal status prevents me from ever visiting him, until the day he’s released. Our communication is limited to phone calls and letters. He instructs me to focus on myself, and that is exactly what I do. I work full-time while also attending school. I self-publish my first book entitled, “Poetic Recovery, Life Don’t Rhyme.” I carve out a career for myself and commit myself to recreating a new me for me.

When Bill is released, I’m ready for him. I get my husband back, and soon I’m offered a new job, complete with a decent salary and of course more responsibility. The job description says I will be responsible for providing eight teenage mothers with empowerment tools to help steer them towards self-sufficiency and independent living. It will require more information than I’m equipped with, and a how-to book will not suffice for this group. My area of expertise is that of a Substance Abuse Specialist.

This is when I become acquainted with Bottomless Closet, a dynamic organization, and take workshops in Personal Enrichment, Financial Development and Professional Development. During these workshops I receive handouts that I copy and reuse while facilitating similar workshops with my clients. I incorporate resume writing, creating a budget, proper attire in the workplace and etiquette. Each week I take what I learn at Bottomless Closet and teach others. I never run out of material. As a result, I’ve made myself more relevant in my position at work and have developed a strong desire to do more for the lives of the young teenage mothers I service.

Living a full life after adversity is a beautiful thing. Not only do I work doing what I love, I also have freedom. I can visit whom I wish. I can choose what I wish to wear and have much more than a trench coat and a teddy to choose from. I read my mail first, create my own menu and have keys to come and go as I please!

Bill and I have been together now for 38 years. We often reflect on the lives we’ve lived and survived. At the end of the day, before lying down for a good night’s rest, we make sure to make each other laugh before turning out the lights. We praise God daily for his grace and mercy because there were many close calls.

I’m no longer 99G0947. I am Zoe again. My name means life, and I am living it to the fullest.

Annah

(she/her)

I was 20 years old when I discovered I was HIV positive. I was pregnant and had little knowledge about the condition. I was scared, shocked and wondering, “Why me?” I remember saying,”I will never be normal again. I had five close relatives who passed away due to AIDS and AIDS-related illnesses, two of whom had been taken care of by my mother. There was no medication available to them in Zimbabwe. There wasn’t adequate information, just high levels of stigma, causing people to keep their diagnosis to themselves. They wouldn’t seek help or advice because HIV was associated with promiscuity and immorality.

A short while after I was diagnosed, I was lucky enough to get information from the local clinic, and it helped me regain my confidence. Having experienced such intense anxiety and confusion, I started to think about the many young women who could be in the same situation; women who may not have adequate knowledge or the skills to ask for services, communicate with a healthcare worker, or have adequate family support like I did.

I felt compelled to do something to help other young women. I started to inquire about support groups within my community and sought out those who would be interested in being part of one. It turned out taking this action and being surrounded by others was therapeutic for me, too. From there, I became involved in different activities and started to discover activism. I had the opportunity to meet other young women and discovered a world of mentors and friends who helped me come to terms with my new condition.

At first, I thought it wouldn’t be possible to have an HIV negative child, but once the process of PMTCT (Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission) was explained to me, I wanted to educate and support my peers. I continued to seek out knowledge and learn more about the condition. So much had changed since my relatives passed away. Back then, as soon as you were diagnosed with AIDS, as it was popularly known, people started awaiting your death.There was no hope and no future, only misery. It was a dark and challenging time.

I learned that now, those of us who are HIV+ can lead long, healthy, fulfilled lives. We have access to medication and have hope for the future. There are strong systems in place for support. By speaking out and being heard, we’re getting rid of the stigma attached to the disease.

I have enormous gratitude appreciation for the activists who struggled, marched, chanted and some who died, so that we could we could have access to medication and services, and have HIV-free babies. I’m now the mother of two, and both of my children are negative.

For my relatives and the activists who’ve come before me, I will continue to do this work, to ensure diverse people — regardless of age, gender, race or social status — will have what they need to thrive with HIV.