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

Why couldn’t I be black and be the true me?

Callie (she/her)

Thinking back over her own difficult journey with their racial identity, Callie ponders the question, “How can I help my daughter feel proud of her own blackness?’

#blacklivesmatter #blackstoriesmatter #defendblacklives

I hated black people for a while. I felt they judged me for being me. And I was trying so hard to figure out who I was. Did I need hoop earrings and air force ones to be black? Did I have to to do my hair and nails? Why couldn’t I be black and be the true me?

My 9-year-old daughter recently said to me, “I wish I could be a beautiful black woman, Mommy.” She’s very fair, and I often feel guilty at how relieved I am that she can, “pass.” I want her to be a proud black woman, but I also don’t want her to suffer through what I went through as a black girl, and woman, not fitting in.

I moved to Wilton, CT, an all white town, when I was 8. On my first day of fourth grade, a boy on the bus called me a nigger. I didn’t know what that was, but I knew it was bad. I told my principal, and he was appalled. His response – have me teach the school about Kwanzaa. He wanted me to explain different holidays from “my culture” to a school full of white people. I didn’t even celebrate Kwanzaa.

What was it like being the only black kid? Well, for starters, every day people told me I wasn’t really black. As far as they were concerned, black people were “gangsta” or spoke in ebonics, listened to rap music and wore hoop earrings. My whole life, everyone I knew, convinced me that I wasn’t one of those “homegirls”. They mocked ethnic names, and talked about the “hood”. As far as I was concerned, I wasn’t black either. My mother only had white friends. I only had white friends.

People thought I wasn’t black because I wasn’t that hoop-wearing homegirl. I began to believe that, too. I wasn’t black. I wasn’t white. What was I? I tried so hard to be “white.” I began to hate BET. I wore bell-bottoms and tie-dyes, listened to The Grateful Dead and The Beatles, while still being followed in stores.

When The ABC Kids, nine black boys from inner-cities, came to my high school, suddenly, everyone assumed they would be my best friends. But, they mocked me. The same things that made the white people accept me, separated me from the black people I finally had an opportunity to interact with. The black boys hated me because I was a poser. I wasn’t black. I wasn’t white. But, who was I?

I hated black people for a while. I felt they judged me for being me. And I was trying so hard to figure out who I was. Did I need hoop earrings and air force ones to be black? Did I have to to do my hair and nails? Why couldn’t I be black and be the true me?

Now, many years later, I’m an activist and an organizer for social justice. As a leader, my job is to call people in and help them understand institutionalized or systemic racism. I can do that. I can use my voice and position of power to explain to white people how offensive or hurtful they are. I can explain that their privilege is more than not being called a nigger. It’s feeling safe when going to doctors who aren’t racist toward them. It’s knowing teachers aren’t racist towards their children. I can explain hard things, lead marches, scream into a megaphone, train young leaders and work to create change. And while it’s a challenge, I’m capable of doing these things.

What I don’t know how to do is make my daughter proud of her blackness. How do I make her proud while simultaneously trying to protect her from being pulled over in parking lots and followed in stores? I’m not sure. I guess I still don’t know what being black means, so how do I teach my daughters?

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

Lovett

(he/him)

I went away for a long weekend to a small Pennsylvania town this past President’s Day weekend. I was aware of the fact, but had not given it much thought, that this part of the state heavily favored Donald Trump. As I waited at a pedestrian crosswalk for the walk signal, an older gentleman and his acquaintances walked up behind me. He began to talk loudly as if he wanted me to hear exactly what he had to say. Out of nowhere, he went on to say that President Obama was the worst eight-year president in the history of our country. It was as if he was trying to get a rise out of me. I immediately realized his intent and decided to ignore him. Nothing good could come from engaging. I had forgotten that encounter by the time my date and I decided to visit a local eatery. We walked in and took a seat, but for 20 minutes we were ignored by the staff. Finally, my date had enough and demanded we leave to preserve our dignity. If you are white, imagine how you would feel when you go to another country and you realize that your appearance is different and you stand out. You know you must be on guard for all kinds of potential problems, and rightfully so. That can be extremely stressful. Now imagine you have to feel this way in your own country for much of your life! Imagine the damage it does to you.

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.

Black Stories Matter

BY EVA TENUTO
EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, TMI PROJECT

Yesterday, on Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday, TMI Project participated in an amazing initiative, Writers Resist. “Writers Resist is a national network of writers driven to defend the ideals of a free, just and compassionate democratic society.”  Events took place all over the nation and in countries around the world. The local event that we participated in was held at The Bearsville Theater in Woodstock NY. The house was packed all afternoon. Every writer/reader/performer brought something important to the stage. The day left us feeling connected, and in turn, hopeful.

After our set was over, I was asked if my story/announcement was anywhere in print. It is here below.

If you would like to hear Tameka Ramsey’s story, please join us at Black Stories Matter, in Kingston NY at 7:30 pm on Saturday, March 25th. Location TBD. Save the date. Details to follow.

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TMI Project is a non profit organization offering transformative memoir writing workshops and performances. We believe that when storytellers divulge the parts of their stories that they usually leave out — the parts they are too ashamed or embarrassed to share, they become agents of change, fostering greater understanding and compassion among people. Our work is intentionally transformational and used to incite social change.

Since 2010, TMI Project has worked with incarcerated teens, teen moms, veterans, international gender activists, adults with mental illness, domestic violence survivors and many other populations who don’t often have a chance to tell their stories or be heard. TMI Project’s work has impacted the lives of the more than 1,400 people who have participated in our workshops and more than 12,000 people who have listened to our stories.

Now, as an organization, TMI Project is addressing the issue of racism in America.

We started talking about how our organization could respond to this issue in 2012 after Trayvon Martin was brutally murdered at 17 years old. We had many brainstorming sessions with one of our board members, Tameka Ramsey, about how we could participate in the solution. But our organization was young and we didn’t yet have the capacity and it got put on the back burner, again and again.

Then Eric Garner was killed. Then Michael Brown was killed. Then 12 year old Tamir Rice was killed while playing on the playground. Have you ever seen pictures of Tamir Rice? I have and he resembles my nephew, Miles, the child who stole my heart the second he was born.

A few weeks after Tamir was senselessly murdered by Cleveland police officers, I was taking my then nine-year-old nephew Miles and his friend John to one of those horrible bouncy parks in the mall. Like Tamir, Miles is an adorable brown boy with sweet brown eyes and irresistible cheeks. His friend John is equally cute with blond hair and blue eyes and about a head shorter than Miles. Miles is tall for his age.

In the car ride over, they talked seriously about Pokémon, speaking a language I couldn’t understand, and snacking on fist fulls of Cheez-Its. When we arrived, they had to be reminded to be aware of parking lot traffic, as they carelessly bounded out of the car. They entered the mall in true little-boy spirit, jumping from one colored floor tile to another, trying not to land on any white ones (or in their world, trying not to fall into the red-hot lava). When we passed Citizen’s Bank they thought it was funny to rename it Cheez-It Bank. Both boys pulled up the hoods of their sweatshirts, stuffed their hands in their pockets to look like they were carrying guns, ran up to the bank entrance for a pretend stick-up and yelled, “Give me all your Cheez-Its!” Then they quickly ran away in side splitting hysterics. While watching them dive head first into what should have been a carefree world of make believe, my heart dropped. Tamir was killed while playing with a fake gun on the playground.

Miles and John started to run away. They looked behind to see if I was going to let them go any further. On other outings, I’d often let them walk far ahead, as long as I could see them, so they could feel independent. But on this particular day I stopped them in their tracks.

“Boys, come back.” As they walked toward me, I had my first glimpse at the way the world would soon be receiving Miles as he transitioned from a cute little brown boy to a young strong black teenager. His sweatshirt all of a sudden a hoodie. His existence, no matter how innocent, somehow perceived as a threat. “Listen to me. This is important.” I waited until Miles was looking directly at me. “You can never pretend to be carrying a gun. Ever. A little boy was just killed by a police officer and all he was doing was playing with a fake gun on the playground.” This information was received with the disgust it deserves, the alarm we no longer have because of the frequency with which we hear these stories. But this was their first story. They could not believe their ears. “A police officer killed a kid?” Miles asked. “I thought they were supposed to protect us.”

As kids do, they quickly forgot what I had told them and as soon as we reached the horrible bouncy park, refocused their energy on a game of tag. But I couldn’t let it go. Did I do the right thing? Is there anything I can teach him that will actually protect him?

Be strong. Be quiet. Be submissive to authority. Stand your ground. Don’t ever break the law, not even a little bit. Don’t play that game. Don’t wear that sweatshirt or drive that car or listen to that music.

In the end, none of it matters because black boys aren’t being killed because of their fake guns or sweatshirts. They’re being killed because they’re black. Will there ever be a generation of black children who can grow up in this country and actually experience what it means to be free? Freedom to play, explore, come into oneself, to thrive, to be safe?

After Tamir Rice there was Walter Scott, Freddie Gray, the six women and three men gunned down in their place of workshop in South Carolina, Sandra Bland, Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, among countless others.

Tameka and I met again, with fear for the future and an overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. After many conversations, more brainstorming, one Sunday school session and a baptist church service, we partnered with everyone on staff at TMI Project, created a diverse committee and launched Black Stories Matter.

Black Stories Matter is TMI Project’s way to participate as an organization in the national outcry of injustice. #blackstoriesmatter will be a digital campaign, so we can use our platform to expose inequality and injustice rapidly and frequently through true storytelling. It will also be a live event, featuring the stories of 10 writers of color, held on March 25th at 7:30pm in Kingston, NY. We’re still confirming the location but please save the date. We hope you attend and listen. Listen with your child-self, like you are hearing your first story of injustice, and let yourself feel the outrage it deserves. Let the stories call you to action.

White people don’t talk about race because we’re afraid we’ll get unintentionally caught, that we will uncover our own discreet racism by saying the wrong thing, that our blind spots will be pointed out. I think the best thing we can do is welcome the insight, be willing to view our unintentionally racists points of view and then work actively to replace them with informed knowledge, deepened compassion and active commitment to work for justice for all. It’s time to speak up. Take risks. Let go of privilege. Use what’s left to a eradicate racism. Fight for black lives. They matter. They wholeheartedly matter.

Here, to share an excerpt of one of her stories, is Tameka Ramsey, whose leadership has helped bring this initiative to fruition.

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By February 1st our website will be set up to accept story submissions from around the country for our digital campaign. Stay tuned! www.tmiproject.org

This initiative would not be possible without the partnership of Alliance of Families for Justice, Center for Creative Education, Pointe of Praise Church, Hudson Valley Families Against Mass Incarceration and ENJN. If you are interested in partnering or getting involved, please email blackstoriesmatter@tmiproject.org.