Member-only story
This Is Us
The Trauma Is at This Address
How it feels to watch family members suffer and die, over and over
November 9, 2016
A school hallway, emptied of laughter, is a hollow place. Steeling myself at 7:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning in the parking lot because I will need to be the fabled strength ascribed to all black women at birth. I cannot do this. I am not grizzled enough for this task. Mr. Locke, the janitor, claps a gnarled hand on my shoulder as I near the door, and I bend into the touch for a moment before straightening up and squaring myself as the automatic door opens.
He whispers to me with an encouraging nod of his head, “Your babies are waiting.”
“How many of them?”
“Not many.”
Waving my card in front of the keypad, I wait until the door click-clicks and push my way into the front office. One of the English teachers is softly sobbing as the copier whirs out her worksheets for the day, and I place the books I am carrying on the front desk and tap her on the shoulder. She turns and wipes hurriedly at her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been crying all morning.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I envelop her in a hug, the first hug I will give that day to adults who have…
