TMI Project stands with Black Lives Matter Now and Always.

2020 is turning out to be the year of 20/20 vision. The global pandemic is revealing the inequality in the healthcare system as we are losing black and brown Americans at a disproportionate rate. The murder of George Floyd, added to a list, far too long, of other black and brown men and woman murdered at the hands of law enforcement, has made it crystal clear that there is no justice in the justice system. A revolution has been ignited calling for a systemic change, a dismantling of structures and institutions that are not in fact broken, but working exactly as they were designed. 

All of us at TMI Project are dedicated to using the power of true storytelling to dismantle the racist systems that are destroying and ending the lives of black and brown people in our local community and nationwide. We will continue to use our programming to provide support, connection, relief, and transformation and use our platform to raise awareness, amplify voices, share resources, and inspire action. 

In this charged and pivotal moment in history, we acknowledge our need to deepen our commitment and expand our approach. We want to share some of our plans and the resources we’re finding helpful. We also welcome your suggestions.

1. Internal training

We must start by looking at ourselves. We’re committed to doing the work as individuals and as an organization. I recommend the article How to Manage Your Team in Times of Political Trauma by Micahell Kim, which clearly features some suggestions TMI Project regularly puts into practice, like encouraging staff to bring their whole selves to work; acknowledging what is happening in the world; taking time at the beginning of meetings to check-in on a human level; giving people ample time for self-care; and reducing or redistributing labor and/or emotional burden. I also highly recommend  So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo which we read last year as a staff. At our retreat, after reading the book, we went through an exercise to explore intersectionality and privilege. TMI Project will plan and share further internal activities for 2020.

2. Expanding Black Stories Matter Black Stories Matter Virtual Drop-in Storytelling Workshop Join TMI Project for a Black Stories Matter virtual drop-in workshop led by Workshop Leaders Dara Lurie and Micah. These free workshops are offered as a safe space for Black people to gather, write, share stories, and receive support.

Accessible Black Stories Matter Content Stories have the power to increase visibility, raise awareness, change people’s hearts and minds, and inspire people to take meaningful action. We are making every effort to ensure all of our Black Stories Matter content is easily accessible, widely consumed, and is accompanied by tools to deepen the impact.

Watch: We will share a story from our Black Stories Matter archives every weekday in June. Please follow us on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter to easily access this content.

Listen: The TMI Project Story Hour, Season Two: Black Stories Matter, launches this fall. Learn more and subscribe to our podcast HERE

Host: a Black Stories Matter viewing party and discussion from anywhere in the world. Click HERE to learn more and sign up.

Share: 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. Click HERE to submit your story to be featured on the TMI Project blog.

3. Shared resources and suggested action items

4. Diversity and Inclusion Training
We’re in the beginning stages of developing diversity and inclusion training through a storytelling lens. It will include ways to build trust; skills to improve communication; exercises to deepen understanding about the concepts of identity, intersectionality, and privilege; skills to identify and differentiate stories — stock/concealed/resistance/counterstories — and their individual purposes. We will provide additional resources and follow-up action items. If you’re interested in learning more, please email Eva at eva@tmiproject.org

 

(Photo from our staff retreat, 2019)

If you want to be a part of the solution by supporting our Black Stories Matter programming, please make a donation today!

We continue to believe that together we can change the world, one story at a time. If there’s anything else we can do or if you have any questions about how you can be more involved please feel free to reach out. We are open to your suggestions and are happy to supply you with additional resources.

In peace and solidarity,
Eva Tenuto and the TMI Project team

Mental illness does not discriminate: My TMI Project transformation

by Allie Quinn (she/her)

In the Fall of 2015, one of my therapists at the Mental Health Association in Ulster County (MHA) suggested I sign up for a TMI Project true storytelling workshop. Even though my interest was piqued, I couldn’t fathom telling my story to strangers. Some of my family and friends didn’t even know the extent of what I had gone through.

Mental illness does not discriminate.

I had vaguely learned about mental illness in psychology classes, but I never imagined that at age 21, days after my junior year of college ended, I would develop a sudden and severe mental illness. In a matter of days, I went from writing 20-page papers to feeling too overwhelmed to read or write; from working 3 part-time jobs to being too paranoid to leave the house without my parents. Within a few weeks, my extreme fight-or-flight responses made driving too dangerous. Over the next several months, I was hospitalized five times, in three different facilities, spending nearly three months total in the hospital. By December, I had gained 30 pounds, withdrew from college, and had accumulated more misdiagnoses and medication changes than I could count. Most of all, I had lost a sense of who I was. I knew I needed to re-evaluate my goals, but I couldn’t find the motivation or hope.

Over the next year and a half, I attended all of my appointments, practiced coping skills, and found stability on the correct combination of medications. I even got my psychiatric service dog, Joey, who helped me gain back my independence. Still, with all of the tools I had gained and the progress I had made, I still felt that a piece of myself was missing. I signed up for a TMI Project true storytelling workshop not knowing if I would have the courage to show up on the first day.

I walked into the MHA conference room and sat toward the end of the table, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I was terrified. As people began introducing themselves and reading their writing, my anxiety and self-consciousness worsened. I couldn’t help but ask myself what happened to the outgoing, stage-stealing, referee-challenging young woman I used to be. I completed my first session, and even though I didn’t make any groundbreaking revelations, it felt satisfying to hold a pen and feel my words flow onto the page.

As the weeks went on, I arrived feeling excited and increasingly more comfortable telling the “TMI” parts of my story. Each time I wrote, I felt a familiar fire inside that I so desperately wanted to return. On week 8, each group member received their finalized monologues from the TMI Project facilitators. When I first read the monologue out loud I experienced an overwhelming feeling of relief and self-empowerment. I stopped and said, “This is how I’ve always wanted to tell my story.” Taking ownership of my struggles and strength was exhilarating. When it came time to read my monologue in front of family, friends, my therapy team, and strangers, I felt strong and confident. I realized that sharing my story and my experience with mental illness could help others who are dealing with mental health issues.

In January of 2016, I started my own blog, and the TMI Project facilitators asked if I’d share my story at other venues. I wrote pieces about mental health and my own illness for The Mighty, MTV, and as a contributor in the book Project Semicolon: Your Story Isn’t Over. That October, I received the Next Generation Award from the YWCA Ulster County for writing and speaking about mental illness. The next month, I applied to SUNY Empire State College to study Community and Human Services. Returning to college had been a goal of mine, but I didn’t know if I would ever be ready. My participation in the TMI Project true storytelling workshop and the culminating live storytelling performance gave me the confidence I needed to reach my goals.

In December 2018, I earned my Bachelors degree and was prepared to use both my education and personal experiences to help my community. I applied to MHA, remembering their deep commitment to me and others battling mental illness. I was hired in February as a Wellness Resource Coordinator, a dream job for me.

The next TMI Project storytelling workshop session at MHA  was drawing near.

As the next TMI Project storytelling workshop at MHA session was drawing near, I asked to be the MHA staff member to sit with the new participants as they wrote their stories and found their strength. Walking into the room on the first day of the session induced a flood of emotions. I was excited for the new writers, nostalgic as I thought about the people who had been in my group, and so grateful for the personal and emotional growth that had occurred for me in that same room. Before participating in my TMI Project workshop, I resented my illness and mourned the young woman I “used to be.” After TMI Project, I embraced my struggles and took pride in my story. I realized I’m never going to be the person I was before mental illness and that’s for the better. I’m so much stronger now.

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.

Pepe

(he/him)

When I was 15, the local media of Uganda outed a group of students my age for being gay, based solely on suspicion. This sparked anger inside me and I wrote an article pointing out that this would rob these students of a deserved education, affecting all of them for the rest of their lives. To my shock, shared by many readers, my rant (article) was published in a weekly teen newspaper pull-out called “Straight Talk.” This, to me, was my ushering into activism.

In my early 20s, I began to come across people like me. They told stories about rape, about their parents refusing to pay school fees, being kicked out of school and ending up homeless. We began to spend most of our time together in bars, and staying away from our homes.

We began to meet at a particular bar to support each other. When an article in a tabloid outed our spot as a lesbian bar, we decided to launch our meetings in a support group, inviting anyone who needed support to come along. In just a year’s time, the support group evolved into an organization, Freedom and Roam Uganda.

We began to search the Internet for information about running an organization and looking for resources to support rape victims and survivors. I borrowed a copy of the Ugandan Constitution and looked for solutions therein. We needed lawyers. We needed doctors. But, none were willing to take on the issues we brought forth. I decided that changing this narrative of helplessness, insecurity, and vulnerability would be my life goal. I felt I couldn’t sit home enjoying the support of my family, while my peers could not have the same, simply because they were either suspected to be gay or lesbian or queer. We began to create visibility through telling our stories on radio talk shows and in articles. These came at a high cost. Tabloids began to out people suspected of being be homosexual.

At this point I felt working in the background was not enough. I shared with my family that I was pursuing activism professionally and that I was going to work with Sexual Minorities Uganda, an organization aiming to liberate LGBTI persons in my country. When one of my uncles heard what he referred to as “this nonsense,” he bought me an airline ticket to leave the country. He wasn’t ashamed of me; he was afraid activism would get me killed. Regardless of his concern, this is an offer I never regret declining.

But, he was right. My life was, and still is, constantly in danger because of the work I do. I have become a public figure as a community organizer and advocate. It has attracted physical attacks, threats of murder and rape, rejection of housing, restriction of movement and several police detentions. Consistently speaking out has brought my name and my sexuality into living rooms across Uganda and brought my country into the spotlight. Now, the international community knows my name. In my case and for many other public activists, there’s a danger in speaking out, but at the same time, our public recognition provides a level of protection and privilege that others working on the frontlines don’t get.

I’ll walk into a room filled with white people.

Drew (he/him)

Every time Drew leaves his house, he has to mentally and emotionally prepare himself for the backlash from society.

#blacklivesmatter #blackstoriesmatter #defendblacklives

I’ll walk into a room filled with white people. Whether I’m the one who initiated the meeting or not, the entire conversation will be directed toward my white counterparts, with an occasional glance in my direction to acknowledge I’m in the room.

As soon as I leave my home, I walk around bracing myself, as if I’m about to get hit by Mike Tyson. I have to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for society’s continual blows – people looking, acting, and speaking to me as if I don’t belong. I wonder if it’s just me or if I’ve inherited PTSD from the trauma passed down from my ancestors, from slavery — steeped in my genes and part of my DNA? Or am I just paranoid? I ask myself these questions every day as I prepare for the inevitable.

Someone will ignore me while I’m patiently waiting in line. I’ll have that stupid smirk on my face; I won’t be able to speak up and say, “excuse me” or else I’ll be looked at as overly aggressive and labeled “The Angry Black Man!”

I’ll walk into a room filled with white people. Whether I’m the one who initiated the meeting or not, the entire conversation will be directed toward my white counterparts, with an occasional glance in my direction to acknowledge I’m in the room.

I’ll graciously hold the door open for a white person, and they’ll look at me as if that’s what I’m supposed to do. There is no “Thank you.” They’ll just continue walking.

I’ll drive the speed limit as I always do. The person behind me will be in a rush. I’ll pull over to let them pass, and they’ll roll down their window and shout, “Stupid Nigger!” Then speed off.

So I’ll ask again: Is it me? Am I just paranoid, or does society conspire against blacks? Are white people taught to be racist and are blacks taught to question and hate themselves and each other?

Want More Black Stories Matter Content?
Stories have the power to increase visibility, raise awareness, change people’s hearts and minds, and inspire people to take meaningful action. We are making every effort to ensure all of our Black Stories Matter content is easily accessible, widely consumed, and is accompanied by tools to deepen the impact.

Listen: The TMI Project Story Hour, Season Two: Black Stories Matter, launches this fall. Learn more and subscribe to our podcast HERE

Host: a Black Stories Matter viewing party and discussion from anywhere in the world. Click HERE to learn more and sign up.

Share: 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. Click HERE to submit your story to be featured on the TMI Project blog.

Learn: Resources for anti-racism activism

Dara

(she/her)

Once, in Portland, Maine, a skinny white boy in grubby clothes calls me ‘nigger.’ He waits until we pass each other on the street to hurl the insult at my back. Amazed, I turn around to stare at his receding form. The intent of this word is clear, to diminish my value and cut me down to size, but I feel no such effect. I laugh to myself or possibly out loud. I’m thinking of how my mother, over all the years of our bitter arguments and prickly standoffs, managed to pour so much of her fighting spirit into me – instructions in a kind of pride I’d often found exaggerated –– all so that I’d be able to withstand exactly this encounter.