today was beautiful the bodies the music the colours. infinite shades of blackness walking talking dancing singing. all ages under a groove. they sing, here. and smile and ask you how you doin’? without expecting a response. first time i had relaxed in a long time.

footsteps move to the rhythm, keep step with the old lady in front and the men flanking. can’t help but add a switch to my step, my usual strut converted to sashay. and still more conservative than most. i followed a man who moved so beautifully i grinned watching, detoured for blocks because the way he moved his body brought joy. lost him when a woman joined a band and sucked everyone’s attention into her. next to the tuba player a man walked who handed the musician a gallon jug of water at intervals. men who looked like my uncles and women who looked like my cousins. older couples moved closer, arms around waists when the band played slow jams. clapped cheered and sang along in loud voices. the best fried chicken i have ever tasted.

outsider status moved me around in a bubble. the deejay made an announcement, asked the crowd to sign a sympathy card they left donations. they cry for each other here. they have each other here. a child in a crowd toddles away from her father, and a line clears between child and parent. a little boy stumbles, immediately three people stop around him and reach out, scanning for his adult. a father rides by on a motorcycle at the slowest possible speed, while little man accompanies on a child’s atv. up north, we don’t respond to children the way they do here, and it’s beautiful here, closer to home.

***

“Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.”

given a chance he would give me all that he had, starting with his blunt. i smiled and declined, he upped the ante. all that is mine, he said. canada’s not that far away, he said. oh, you’re sudanese? took his hat off and bowed. i just have to say, i identify with your struggle. at my response, he retreated into dated notions and afrocentric nubian queendom. bon appetit, but you can’t have the coleslaw as he ushered a drunken man in green away. d’accord ma chére, how you doin’? encore. in a cowboy hat zoomed in outsider, he called. scanned from head to toe, smiled at sweetheart, take it easy. don’t forget it’s a conspiracy eyes narrowed, stay safe. y el sordo tambíen don’t walk past here at night, take care of you. bredren from yard interrupted our music conversation to tell his sistren they were beautiful as they approached. thank you they dragged the vowels out and smiled into eyes. told me his daughter looked like me, beautiful too.

(encounters understood in context, recognise that their value lies in their source, my reflection).

i’m not good with goodbyes, endings. i don’t respond well to death, have a hard time accepting it. when things end, i spend a little time compressing, packing everything into a tightly sealed box. i turn inwards, until I can lock that pain into that sealed box. it means that i never get to mourn. but then the box starts cracking in places, leaking sadness. one of the (many) things i need to work on, the acceptance of death, the physical finality of it. this is all related to needing a safe space for comfort, and learning how to create it or find it. so i can really mourn and honour the memories. so i can talk about those i lost.

a teacher passed away recently, and her death had a bigger impact on me than i had expected:

boulder, 2008. a writing workshop. i’ve written about it before, elsewhere. the workshop was called ”Taking a Solo: Prose & Interdependent Consciousness”, and was taught by akilah oliver, replacing thulani davis. akilah was there as i transitioned as a writer, artist and most importantly, as a black woman.

thich nhat hanh and inter-/intra-/inner relationships. being black. expression and emotion. universality and the odyssey.

within the classroom and beyond. in her home. my first american fourth of july experience was at akilah’s invitation, lying on grass, fireworks through trees. words she spoke weighted. in her multitudes of poet teacher artist black woman.

two: (first) the act of witnessing. what does witnessing mean? what is the role of the witness? how do you (avoid/escape) witness? what should witnessing result in? who is a witness and who is an actor and who is a victim and who records and recalls the scene? testifies? etc. (second): tashkeel, or the process of forming. a project, discussed, dissected, noted, challenged. shelved, only recently returned to.

in my transient nomadic world, elders are rare. for my generation, their wisdom is hard to come by. sometimes they’re not there, sometimes they’re not available, sometimes they’re in conflict. (i’m not the only one). every opportunity to learn is seized on, every word cherished. i don’t have access to many black women older than myself who take the time to talk and listen and understand.

i wouldn’t profess a closeness or growing intimacy between akilah and myself. there is a tragedy to her passing at such a young age, a sadness at the loss of her gifts as a person and an artist. akilah is a significant person to me, because she was generous, patient and giving, and i’ve always been grateful to her for that. i grieve her passing.

ashé.

Akilah Oliver (d.2011)

***

writing this has been difficult, largely because i’m alone. part of the reason i find death easier to block than deal with is that i can’t talk about the joy of having known and the pain of no longer knowing, which is always keenly intense, too intense for most casual spaces. writing this, i’m nowhere i can be held. but i’m learning to create my own safety, to carry it with me, and to reach out when i need to.