A Month in Memoriam: Day 8

The tears came yesterday.

Zinhle Essamuah, an emerging filmmaker invited me to sit on a panel discussion following the screening of her first film, Hands Up, a micro-documentary that follows her to Ferguson in search of the answer to the question — “Do Black lives matter?” through the eyes of youth, clergy, protesters and Ferguson natives.

As I saw the scenes unfold on the screen, a lump began to form in my throat. There is something about a line stuffed animals and teddy bears that cover the blood-stained linear to Mike Brown’s death that cannot quite be put into words.

Tamir’s face flashed across the screen. Walter ran for his life again. A tear slipped down my face. Then another. My leg shook. I wanted to run out of the auditorium. I knew the film was ending. I knew I’d be called down to the front of the room…

I bolted to the bathroom and once inside the stall, I crouched down and cried for a bit. I hoped that they didn’t come looking for me. That no one came into the bathroom after hearing sobs from the hall.

I just needed a moment.

“Alright,” I told myself. “It’s going to be alright.”

I headed back downstairs and took my seat among my fellow sisters and brothers in the struggle.

“Is there a space,” the moderator asked, “that you can go for grieving — to let it out?”

Oh, the irony.

Erika Totten, founder of To Live Unchained & organizer of the DMV Black Lives Matter chapter, shared the weekly Emotional Emancipation Circles and Black Joy Circles that take place here in DC on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

I took a deep breath.

“I’m going to be real with y’all,” I said. “I just had to step outside to take a moment and cry. It just hits you sometimes. I don’t just sit down and say, ‘Ok, cry Randi, cry,’ or give myself between the hours of 2–5pm on a Tuesday to cry — this ain’t office hours.”

You feel what you feel, when you feel it. There is no crying on cue.

I told them that last Saturday, I tried to keep it together for Ms. Geneva, Sandra Bland’s mom but I couldn’t.

I told them about how last April, I set myself up to run the Broad Street 10-Miler in Philly. The night before the race, I stared at my bib. I decided that since I’d completely blown off training for the race, I would run in my dri-fit And Counting tee as motivation.

Freddie needed a bib too.

So I drew one. Over and over and over again until the tears came. We weren’t even halfway through the year and there were already two more volumes of The And Counting Collection.

& Akai & Tamir & Walter &…

Name after name after name.

I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t keep up.

The next morning, a white lady turned me to and said, “Thank you, I’m from Baltimore and we appreciate the support.” I believed her. I did not question her sincerity.

During the last mile of the race, I cried too. It just happened. But when I crossed that finish line, I rejoiced, for my brothers and sisters were with me every step of the way. Mile by mile, they were my motivation.

“You just gotta let it happen,” I said to the crowd. “Grieve when you feel it, wherever that may be.”