Erica

(she/her)

Once, when I was 13, I attended a dinner. It didn’t resemble the types of dinner parties I found myself attending those days. I assumed an extravagant meal of fine preparations, as usual. This time was different. We gathered that evening to share an experience, a memorial to a man who had connected us all. Tonight he was missing. I was seated among family at a table, elongated by the addition of another slightly shorter table, both covered by white tablecloths. Seated at the shorter of the two tables, I was crowded in with my first cousins. At the adult table sat the Aunts, the Uncles and my dear parents. Youth of this family were about to embark on a unique, effective and unforgettable learning experience. The table wasn’t adorned with silver flatware, the prepared meal wasn’t served on fine china, and we weren’t making toasts with crystal glasses. Instead, in front of us were tin pie pans for meal placement and assorted repurposed glass mayonnaise jars for drinking. The meal consisted of the less desirable cube steak as the main fare–the kind of meal my grandfather and his family ate many years ago, strained within their means. That evening we celebrated the life of my grandfather, Pops. In one another’s company we laughed and shared stories striking bittersweet emotions, gathered in love as his offspring had done so many times in their youth. A new generation, now awakened in and by love.

Rachel

Whenever I apply for something online or over the phone, like a job or a school, the first thing I wonder when the communication ends, and ends well, is: “Oh, dear. Do they know I’m black?” I mean, did I type or speak too code-switched? I mean, maybe it’s just me, but…I don’t wake up black. I don’t yawn and roll out of my bed a fully-actualized, weight-of-history-and-slavery-and-disenfranchisement-and-oppression-and-racism’s-continuing-drain-on-American-society, black African-American. (That shit doesn’t happen till at least after I’ve brushed my teeth. And usually, not til I step out my front door.) So, will I go for the official interview and be greeted with wide, perplexed blue eyes because I’m just so darned—as my mother’s generation puts it—tall? Because it’s pretty much like I said: I’m not black sitting at home in bed. When I step out the door is a different story. One that starts and ends with my skin, as far as the world-at-large is concerned. Unsurprisingly, I tend to prefer phone interviews to in-person ones. Even if I have to ask myself that question: Do they know I’m black? And I always ask it. And a lot of times, on the heels of it: Do I?

Micah

(he/him)

Can I touch your hair? Is your beard real? Can I take a photo with you? Dude, you’re so cool! Especially the drunk white chick or the group of dudes in the bar that just can’t control themselves. This is also how some white people see me. Or rather, how they don’t see me, but rather some idea or figment of me. Depending on how I was wearing my hair, I have been told I was Indian, Spanish, Rastafarian –“Ja Rastafari”– Ethiopian — praising Haile Selassie. Muslim — “assalam o alaikum” — or some form of Jewish, often sephardic. Or they simply call out the name in their head so that they can fit me into the proper slot in their mental filing cabinet — Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, Be Real, that guy from LMFAO, that guy from TV on The Radio, Reggie Watts, that guy in that commercial, or as the Dominican Republic likes to call me, Osama Bin Laden. Those are just a few. The thing about being black is that it is as open as anything. By being me, I am being black and thus the definition of being black is expanded. There is no way to be black. I just am black. I am also just me. I don’t speak for all black people. If I say yes to you touching my hair, you would be a fool to assume that that means we are all ok with you touching our hair — I can assure that is not the case.

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.

Shai

(she/her)

My earliest memory of my mother was at the age of six. This is when she taught me how to become a thief. Walking down the street with my mother, in what I thought was an ice cream run. She kneeled down to me and said, “Angel eyes”–this was her nick name for me me since birth–“I need you to sit on that bench and don’t move. And you better not talk to any strangers. You understand?” “Yes,” I said. “I have to go inside this store for one minute,” she continued. I watched her as she entered the store. She entered the store as a slim woman,and walked out as a fat woman. I didn’t understand, so I asked lots of questions. “Terrlyan, why did you go in the store slim and come out fat? Why are you walking like that? Why?” “Little girl,” she said, “stop asking me all theses questions and walk faster.” “Yes Mommy! I mean Terrlyan!” She never liked for me to call her mommy. Every time I did she would respond, “What did I tell you to call me?” I would then apologize and try not to make that mistake again. People would approach my mother and put in orders. My mother was the neighborhood booster. This is how she supported her addiction. At age six I became her partner in crime. She would use me as her decoy to steal from lots of stores. Looking back, she was really good at it–a professional. It became like a job.

Tameka

(she/her)

When this picture was taken, I was 16. A teacher/mentor had taken me and another student on a trip to New Orleans to work with other students on a peace project. She had a friend who owned a boat – a black man. He took us to pick out bait, taught us how to bait the fishing line and took us out on the bayou to fish. I remember all the “dawnings” I had that day. It dawned on me that I now knew a black man that owned a boat. It dawned on me that being out of the projects and out in nature was restoring me, making me a different person than all the persons I knew, that I was getting something lots of people I knew would never get. It dawned on me that trying new things – catching the beautiful trout on my first time fishing – was improving my self esteem. That my smile was the widest it had ever been, fueled by the hope and joy of self discovery and a broadened sense of what was possible for me. Its been 26 years since that picture was taken. I’m a privileged girl. I have lived a lot of my dreams. But it’s been immeasurably harder than I thought it would be all those years ago, in so many ways. I pull this picture out when I need to remember the confidence and clarity of purpose I’d found that day.

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.

Kesai

Kesai (he/him)

Not knowing my dad was not knowing my masculine self, my blackness, who I was as a person. My mom did her best to support me and my emotional needs. As a child, she enrolled me into therapy. There I was able to act out emotionally. All of my rage, sadness, confusion and abandonment issues were addressed. My therapist created a safe place for me to talk about my father and my feelings surrounding that lack of connection. I also have an uncle I was very close to growing up. He was my surrogate father and filled the masculine role in my life. It was through him that I learned about Buddhism. I was attracted to its teachings of awakening to your true self and self-reliance. From a young age, I learned to be comfortable in my own skin. My mom, who is white, wanted me to have a black upbringing and grow up “black.” I never bought into that because it wasn’t authentic. I grew up with a white mother, a white uncle, and a white older brother. Even though I never viewed myself as being white, I never viewed myself as being black either. I’ve always viewed myself as me, Kesai. I never liked people and society to dictate to me who I’m supposed to be and how to act based on the color of my skin. I’ve seen how painful it could be to try and fit into a mold in order to belong.