For Toni Morrison...
I had a standard relationship with Ms. Morrison. It was the kind of relationship any fan/admirer/follower has with that one person they revere: a one-sided relationship. She poured into me with her words, affirmed my existence with her novels, came alive with a passion for Black people and a love for Black women any time she was in front of a camera. I knew Ms. Morrison this way, but she did not know me.
I'd never met her face-to-face. We'd never spoken on the phone. I hadn't even done as much as write her a letter to add to her presumably large pile of fan mail. The only thing I felt I could truly do was be grateful for her, and ask God to show her blessings and favor, because man did she deserve.
I didn't mind that our relationship was one-sided, as long as she was here, her presence felt, her wisdom shared...
And then she passed. On Monday, she was gone.
I was at work when I found out. At my desk. I had to get up and walk away, because I couldn't just take in that kind of news in front of my peers. I hid in a bathroom stall and shed tears over it. I approached some coworkers and friends whom I knew would have similar feelings. I fidgeted at my desk when I was finally able to get my butt back in my seat. Needless to say, I wasn't processing the news well. And I shouldn't have been expected to.
Because Toni Morrison was the first writer I got to know who looked like me, spoke like me, was for me. Zora Neal Hurston and James Baldwin were long gone, and I'd barely been here to experience Gwendolyn Brooks' presence on this earth during her final days. Thank God for Maya Angelou, of whom I got the privilege to experience as she spoke live to hundreds of my closest classmates at Mizzou, and soon after that, she was gone, too.
But at least I had Toni.
At least there was one elder still around to tell me what I needed to hear instead of what I wanted to hear, a Black woman who demanded I tell my story, many stories, meaningful stories that center Black experiences and Black women like us.
Us.
I think that's partially why I'm still so drawn in by Ms. Morrison, in awe of how she addresses us. It was always about us with her. It was always about our people, our fight, our lives. She included me in everything she created, everything she said, and yet, we'd never met. Yet somehow, she still knew me in spirit as I felt I knew her. How incredible...
I began thinking about her spirit that day at my desk. I thought about how to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. I thought about the freedom she has now that she's escaped the bars of her body, shackles of her shell. And it was then that I realized that there was freedom in death, not just for the deceased, but for those of us who have been left behind.
Don't you see? This was my chance to transform our affiliation from a one-sided relationship to a two-way stream of communication. I knew what I had to do.
I got up from my desk, took my cup of water with me, and headed downstairs to the river walk located behind my job. I went to the river on and looked at the beauty of the day—the sun, the nature, the birds—and then I began.
Right there, just feet above the river, I started to speak to Toni Morrison. I addressed her as my Ancestor and poured water from my cup into the river, poured out libations for her as a sign of respect, blessings, and adoration. It's a practice that dates back to Africa, introduced during a time way before colonization. It's why many of us "pour some out for the homies" when a loved one has passes. Though the origin and meaning behind doing so has been lost to years of separation and bondage, the sentiment has remained the same: respect, honor, reverence.
Then, I spoke to her freely, no holds barred. I told her exactly how I felt: mournful, uncertain, lost. I expressed how much her energy on this earth meant to me, how she was an undeniable part of the ethos of my identity as a Black woman writer, how her words made me feel safe and loved and a certain that I was a vessel filled with purpose. And I told her that losing this—her physical presence on this earth—made me feel as though I'd lost a part of myself. This person responsible for my development and esteem and identity is no longer here, so what happens nows?
Well, what happened next gives an answer to that question: I gave thanks and I made my promises.
I thanked her for the work she did here on earth, for allowing her light to shine on behalf of people who'd been thrown away in the dark and forgotten. I thanked God for choosing her to be a living example of what love and sacrifice and words can do, for allowing her to be a voice, for an entire people and for individual me all at once. I thanked my grandparents, rest their souls, for continuing to watch over me, for still guiding me as part of The Ancestors. I thanked everyone.
And then I promised.
I promised I'd uphold Ms. Morrison's legacy, heed the words she'd both spoken and written, remember who I am and how important my pen is. I promised her I would finish my novel, get my work published, stop at nothing to make sure the stories of people who look like us, both in fiction and in reality, are told, heard, and considered. I promised to help shape the minds of the children who come after me, just as she helped shape me.
I promised my grandparents I would continue to carry their blood, their teachings, their legacy. I even poured some libations in the river for them too, as a sign of respect from their living descendant.
And then I promised God. I promised I would fulfill my purpose—be a microphone for Him and His people in a world that wants to cut out our tongues—and follow through by using my gifts as a writer.
I promised everyone that I would not let them down; I would make them proud.
And when I walked away from that river, having poured my libations and poured my heart out, I felt a wave of peace wash over me. I knew that my Ancestors had heard me, that God had listened to me, and it solidified my certainty and responsibilities as someone who still exists on this earth. My hero may have joined The Ancestors, but her calling still remains, and now that her spirit is free, I am also free to connect with her as she speaks and guides from beyond. The work she did, words she spoke, things she literally wrote into existence—all of those things still remain. Toni Morrison left behind an incredible legacy, and she did that for us. And now that she's gone, it's time for me to pick up where she left off; it's time to write my way into my destiny.
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