This Could’ve Been The Day They Found Me.
This could’ve been the day they realized I’d gone missing.
The day I didn’t come home.
February 9th could’ve been the day the found me dead.
I almost jumped. A voice called out to me, urging to do so.
Leave.
You can leave right now.
I was ready to leave.
A year ago, I stood, looking, first across the city’s illuminated skyline, then down, over a wall on the rooftop of the San Francisco Art Institute.
Jump.
Go ahead and jump.
I could’ve jumped over with ease.
I backed away, shook my head and walked down the rooftop, then found myself drawn to the wall again.
If I jumped, no one would find me for days.
The trees would hide my body.
I was ready to leave.
I wanted to leave.
I backed away again and sat down.
I began to cry.
I took my shoes off.
I closed my eyes.
The more I looked at the wall, the more I saw myself throwing my body over it.
I called a friend.
She did not answer.
I called another friend.
He answered.
I could not stop crying.
I tried to explain what I was feeling, why I was crying.
I called another friend. I asked him to come get me.
I need you to come get me.
He said he’d be there in 20 minutes. He’d called a car.
My sister stayed on the phone with me.
Prayed with me.
Talked to me. Consoled me.
I could not stop crying.
I could not stop sobbing.
I rocked back and forth on the ground.
I could not stop.
I could not stop.
I could not stop.
Despair had manifested itself within my body and my mind.
I wanted to leave this world.
This body.
This trauma.
This cycle.
This
living
nightmare
where
Black bodies are pillaged mercilessly.
Repeatedly.
Unapologetically.
Haven’t we suffered enough?
Hadn’t we sacrified enough?
Haven’t we bled enough?
Emmett &
Medgar &
James &
Eleanor &
Amadou &
Sean &
Tarika &
Oscar &
Aiyana &
Travyon &
Renisha &
Jordan &
Rekia &
Miriam &
Yvette &
Eric &
Mike &
Ezell &
Akai &
Tanisha &
Tamir &
Natasha &
Anthony &
Walter &
Freddie &
Brendon &
Sandra &
Kalief &
Marshawn &
Alton &
Philando
&…
HAVEN’T YOU HAD ENOUGH OF US?
My friend arrived.
Those minutes felt like hours.
He put his arms around me.
I could not stand up.
I still could not stop crying.
We went to my sister’s house.
I did not want to be alone.
Eventually, sleep came upon me.
I woke the next morning to a missed call.
Who’s calling me at 6am from New York?
They left a voicemail. And sent an email.
It was ESSENCE. It was the call, the call asking me to design the t-shirts for their inaugural Woke 100 issue.
Yesterday was February 8th.
Yesterday I almost left this place.
This earth, of which we are so wretched.
On February 8, 2016, Marshawn McCarrel shot and killed himself on the steps of the Ohio Statehouse.
“My demons won today. I’m sorry.”
On February 8, 2017, I, Randi Gloss, almost threw myself over a wall.
The devil left me, and angels came and attended me.
I praise God for that.
Now, I understand with more clarity than ever, why my ancestors threw themselves overboard into the Atlantic rather than attempt to survive the Middle Passage and endure the hell on earth that was chattel slavery.
But if I’d thrown myself over that wall, I would’ve been completely disregarding their sacrifice.
I am here, alive, to carry their sacrifice on.
My pain, my suffering my despair — our pain, our suffering, our despair — pales in comparison to theirs.
I have not been beaten.
Nor have I been whipped mercilessly until my flesh split open and seeped out of wounds that would never truly heal.
I have not been scorched by the sun, forced to pick cotton until my back forgot what upright feels like.
Nor have I been raped more times than I could count.
I have not endured enough to end my own life.
It is not my decision to make.
It was not my decision to make.
When I die, it will be God’s doing.
Until then, with a soul that knows despair beyond 27 years but refuses to succumb to it, I am here.
I am alive.
