Encountering Nia Wilson (2000–2018)

Ayanna Avise
Sep 2, 2018 · 4 min read
Memorial to Nia WIlson at MacArthur BART. Photo credit: Ayanna Grady-Hunt

I arrived in San Francisco on a Thursday, full of bags, and maybe just a little bit of baggage that I had not fully offloaded back in Atlanta. The temperature was chilly for this Atlantan — mid 50s in August. I zipped up my orange leather jacket, draped my scarf around my (beginning to sore) throat, and headed to my new home on the campus of San Francisco State University where I had come to study anthropological filmmaking.

The school was delightfully more than I expected. My professors have experience in both field research and academia. The campus bustles with color and the giddy noises of thousands of students. My apartment (shared with two roommates) overlooks the city skyline, with floor to ceiling windows. All in all, it wasn’t a bad place to land for someone who left a career on the rise, friends, and a son I adore. True, my life in Atlanta was solid, but it had not excited me for a while, and it was time for a change. My soul craved new experiences and it appeared that I found what I was seeking.

A week to the day of my arrival, it was time to brave San Francisco’s mass transit. After a brief false start, I was on my way to Oakland, to Marcus Books, the oldest Black bookstore in the country. I was there to pick up texts for my Africana Studies class with Dr. Wade Nobles. On the train, I made a friend and we chatted about everything from soul food to gentrification. As we exited the train at the MacArthur station, he mentioned, almost in a whisper, “you know this area has been in the news lately.” I looked at him, and remembered with a jolt the murder of Nia Wilson at an Oakland train station by lunatic, white supremacist. I asked if this was the station where she was killed? He said he wasn’t sure, but I think he knew. We parted, promised to stay in touch, and I headed downstairs.

I emerged from the escalator to bright light. Then, I felt a heaviness weigh on me. Like someone threw a heated blanket over me. A few jagged steps later, I encountered the spirit of Nia Wilson. Before me was a memorial of lit candles, burning incense, pictures, flowers, art, and words that spread farther and farther from the station as more people came to honor her brief life and to share in communal grief. It was silent. But in that silence, I felt the rage of a woman who was not ready to leave. Whose time had not yet come. Or maybe it was my rage that I felt. Rage at the senseless murder of a young woman so close in age to my own child that the pain felt by her family and loved ones was easily transferred to me, and to others. A woman stopped near me, greeted me, and uttered a prayer, before leaving me alone again with Nia’s spirit. And our shared rage.

As a person who believes in the interconnectedness of all things, who believes in a governing Spirit that oversees creation and all within it, and in a God/dess that honors balance and justice, I can only assume that I was led to this place. I was led here so that I would be reminded that no matter how idyllic the view, how scenic the water, how pleasant the idle chatter, black lives are in danger. Black women’s lives are in danger. When I was just 19 years old, I escaped a situation where I was held at gunpoint and kidnapped. One of the things that my kidnapper said to me was, “I have never been this close to a black girl.” I don’t know if that had anything to do with why he chose me that day to carjack and kidnap, but his words have never left me.

Encountering the spirit of Nia Wilson, and sharing in the grief of all those who felt the pain of her murder, was a sobering reminder of why I made this journey halfway across the country to study cultural anthropology. To tell black stories from the lens of a black woman. To keep the memories of women like Nia Wilson, now an ancestor, alive and ever-present. To honor her life with the sanctity of work that makes clear that black women matter and we will not be silenced. Even in death.

Ayanna Grady-Hunt is a storyteller, emergent theologian and a woman who is constantly seeking her next great experience.

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