A Woman named Rachael Janet Williams was Killed on Creasy Lane in 2013 and I Heard Nothing About It
by Jolivette Anderson-Douoning
I don't run into very many Black men in Lafayette, Indiana and the ones I do run into often avoid eye contact with me. I assume because there are many interracial couples in this area, and I assume that my dreadlocks, my cultural garments, and my scent of Egyptian Musk or Patchouli kinda gives brothers pause.
I suspect they think I will give them the 'What you doing with that White girl" look or energy. While I admit that energy has been and on some days still is a part of my thinking, I have matured enough to let people be who they are and not get into their business with my world view, regardless of how evolved or devolved I am on any particular day. But this is not about me, this is about Black Women in general, and what happens when we meet our demise.
I was moving my belongings out of my ex-husband's apartment. I called a moving company and scheduled a date and time. To my surprise, TWO Black men showed up to move my 30 years worth of stuff. Some furniture, mostly boxes of books, family documents, and memories. I was so energized when I saw them that when they asked, 'How you doing?", I said, " I'm Black, that is how I am doing. We all laughed because they were happy to see my big, black self too.
As we often do, we start to chat, the way Black folk chat. I am older than them by quite a few years, one brother was from Indianapolis, the other from Chicago. I said, that is all fine and good, but what part of the South are your people from. Their responses: Itta Bena, Mississippi and Jackson, Tennessee. It was a front porch, sweet potato pie, catfish, and collard greens conversation from that point forward.
Then things took a turn for the Ancestral. One brother told me he was displeased with the local NAACP because he felt they did nothing to help him. I said, well if you need me to do a workshop with some of the folk you know on how to respond to the things that happen in town, how to work the system to seek justice, I would be willing to have those type conversations.
The brother explained that his situation was unique.
My daughter's mother wall killed on Creasy Lane in front of the Discount Tire place. It was early in the morning, before day. She was run over by a car. We put flowers and stuff out there by a tree near where it happened, it is still there.
I admit, I see street memorials all the time, I never thought I would meet someone who actually put one up in memory of a loved one in a spot I pass on a regular basis.
Instead of arresting the man who ran over her, they came to his home and picked him up. The driver claimed that "she just came out of no where" so a Black detective put him under investigation for killing his daughter's mother. The man that ran over her never went to jail, no justice at all for Sister Rachel Janet Williams or her family members. This was 2013. I had not heard anything about it. That was a hard year for me too because my mother died in April so I thought that was why I had not heard about it.
The young brother told me there was no article in the paper, no news report, no one held accountable for the death of this woman who left a then 3 year old girl-child behind, the child he is now raising alone with the help of his family.
I was hit really hard emotionally. What if I did not come home to my daughter. Who would raise her? Most importantly, I kept thinking about a Sister I did not know. To my knowledge, I had never met her. A mother. A woman with a warm, loving personality. A woman liked and loved by many. This is how her man, the father of her child described her. I can only think and believe her to be someone special.
To be fair, I am assuming much. I never asked if she was Black, but no matter what, she needs to be acknowledged and remembered for who she was, how she died, where she died, and how sometimes justice does not get served. We all leave an imprint, an energy that says we have been here.
I pray for her daughter, I pray for her family, I pray for the justice she deserves.
Racheal Janet Williams, I speak your name in remembrance of your life lived in Lafayette, IN and anywhere you roamed on the planet Earth. Who will remember us when we die? A very good brother loved you and he remembers the beautiful things about you. Rest in peace, Rise in Power, your energy lives on. Ase!
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
When Adisa Foluke died
Twenty Years Ago
July 29, 1997
By Jolivette Anderson-Douoning
On that day, he was sitting in front of me on a charter bus. We were in route to Washington DC to meet with the Congressional Black Caucus. We'd left South Carolina, Oyitunji African Village, the evening before. In retrospect, there were signs.
We were on Interstate 95. I remember Stevie Wonder playing on a boom box, "Hey, Love..." before I went to sleep.
I remember, waking at some point in the middle of night, leaning forward to tell Adisa Foluke , "I love you Brother". He was staring straight ahead as if he was watching the road, watching our driver, Mr Oliver, or just watching and protecting us.
I remember, waking once again, the sun pierced my eyelids, it was golden, warm, rays on my skin.
Then. I remember. Bumpiness. Rattling sound. Feeling of floating in the air, like in an airplane. But. We were in a bus. Then. We CRASHED. DROPPED. SLID. into the Nottaway River in Virgina.
My watch stopped at 7:07 am July 29.
That was the moment Adisa died.
Pathways to Freedom Underground Railroad Tour 1997, Rosa and Raymond Parks Institute for Self-Development.
July 29, 1997
By Jolivette Anderson-Douoning
On that day, he was sitting in front of me on a charter bus. We were in route to Washington DC to meet with the Congressional Black Caucus. We'd left South Carolina, Oyitunji African Village, the evening before. In retrospect, there were signs.
We were on Interstate 95. I remember Stevie Wonder playing on a boom box, "Hey, Love..." before I went to sleep.
I remember, waking at some point in the middle of night, leaning forward to tell Adisa Foluke , "I love you Brother". He was staring straight ahead as if he was watching the road, watching our driver, Mr Oliver, or just watching and protecting us.
I remember, waking once again, the sun pierced my eyelids, it was golden, warm, rays on my skin.
Then. I remember. Bumpiness. Rattling sound. Feeling of floating in the air, like in an airplane. But. We were in a bus. Then. We CRASHED. DROPPED. SLID. into the Nottaway River in Virgina.
My watch stopped at 7:07 am July 29.
That was the moment Adisa died.
Pathways to Freedom Underground Railroad Tour 1997, Rosa and Raymond Parks Institute for Self-Development.
Memories of Me and Love from Family
I was opening act for the Tom Joyner Comedy Revue back in the day (Thanks to Stan Branson )
My brother came to Jackson, MS from TN to support me. We got to meet Jay Anthony Brown backstage.
Funny, Jethro H. Anderson road tripped it to Little Rock, Arkansas to see me open for Patti LaBelle ( Thanks to Arden Barnett ) and Jacqueline Anderson road tripped it to Mississippi to see me open for Brian McKnight ( Thanks to Arden again)
Uh... Arve Anderson you got to catch up... lol.
Seriously though, Arve was stationed at Fort Belvoir on this day 20 years ago. He got the call saying, " Your sister was in that bus that went into that river near Stony Creek, Virginia"
The Army let him hit the road to come see about me. My baby brother held me while I cried, while I tried to process why Adisa had to die.
Jethro, at the time, was expecting his first born son with his wife Jamiletta Chestnut Anderson. They called me 2 weeks later, wanting to have a name with some meaning for that new baby.
I missed the call, but they remembered my pain, they wanted a name that started with the letter J.
I called Nikki Skies and she said what about 'Jelani'?
I called my brother back he said, "You too late, she named him Jamir, but his middle name is Adisa, after your friend that died. Jamir Anderson middle name Adisa!
**crying**
All this to say, I am so grateful to God, Our Parents, our Ancestors, the community we grew up in and so much more because my siblings take care of me in the good times and the bad.
When I achieve, WE achieve.
When I get this degree, THIS IS OUR PHD!
YES, Jerene, I am looking for a JOB!!!
My brother came to Jackson, MS from TN to support me. We got to meet Jay Anthony Brown backstage.
Funny, Jethro H. Anderson road tripped it to Little Rock, Arkansas to see me open for Patti LaBelle ( Thanks to Arden Barnett ) and Jacqueline Anderson road tripped it to Mississippi to see me open for Brian McKnight ( Thanks to Arden again)
Uh... Arve Anderson you got to catch up... lol.
Seriously though, Arve was stationed at Fort Belvoir on this day 20 years ago. He got the call saying, " Your sister was in that bus that went into that river near Stony Creek, Virginia"
The Army let him hit the road to come see about me. My baby brother held me while I cried, while I tried to process why Adisa had to die.
Jethro, at the time, was expecting his first born son with his wife Jamiletta Chestnut Anderson. They called me 2 weeks later, wanting to have a name with some meaning for that new baby.
I missed the call, but they remembered my pain, they wanted a name that started with the letter J.
I called Nikki Skies and she said what about 'Jelani'?
I called my brother back he said, "You too late, she named him Jamir, but his middle name is Adisa, after your friend that died. Jamir Anderson middle name Adisa!
**crying**
All this to say, I am so grateful to God, Our Parents, our Ancestors, the community we grew up in and so much more because my siblings take care of me in the good times and the bad.
When I achieve, WE achieve.
When I get this degree, THIS IS OUR PHD!
YES, Jerene, I am looking for a JOB!!!
Tribute to Onyi and Esom (Thank you for welcoming Nadja and I into your lives)
A Tribute to Onyi, Mother of Three (and her daughter Esom)
Sister Friend Onyi and her daughter Esom moved away to Georgia this morning.
Esom showed up one January as the new little Black Girl at school, so Nadja was not alone anymore.
Nadja immediately stepped to her and asked, " Do you want to be my friend?" Esom agreed and they made 'Little Black Girl History' for the past 4 years.
They laughed, argued, cried, consoled, developed crushes, watched their Mamas struggle, bonded in battles against their brothers, yelled and screamed at each other.... the regular journey for girls their age for sure.
But, what makes me cry the most right now is knowing that those moments will stay with them. They cried and hugged last night. I got to crying too, oh it was a mess, but it was progress.
I had no idea that during all the times I was driving these Little Queens-in-Training around that they were actually LISTENING to me.
For the past few days, Esom has been saying, "Tell me a story, you know, like the time Nadja was born or the time you were young, and speak Louisiana" (side eye, I think she means Southern).
I had no idea she loved my southern... accent and stories, just as much as Nadja loves them.
May we adults never underestimate the power of human contact and conversation.
Children still watch and listen and try to become the best ... or the worse... we demonstrate to them. (Which means neither of these Baby Queens will be at a loss for ways, methods, and means to give someone a good cussing out cause they were around me for years, but only when all other methods of sanity and common sense have failed).
Most importantly, I required them to be more than they wanted to embrace. They could say 'hello in about 5 or 6 different languages, but could not say 'hello' in Bété (Nadja) or in Igbo (Esom) not even in 'Colored or Negro' but that's another Black Culture story.
So, I made Esom get her mom on the phone and Nadja get her dad on the phone to learn how to say hello in their African Ethnic (some say Tribal) tongue. It was so foreign to them they laughed and giggled so I made them put the words to beat with a rhythm.
The next day, they did not remember.... but the fact I made them do it, THEY WILL REMEMBER.
Nadja, you are a Bété / Tikar child, you have an African identity, you are not the empty- headed, souless savage your American identity claims and still tells you to be.
Esom, you are an Igbo/Iduma child, you have an African identity, you are not the empty- headed, souless savage your American identity claims and still tells you to be.
I pray to the Creator that every second you were /are in my presence that you learned how to Love and how to Survive.
Take it to the next level, learn how to thrive, in your skin, in your African Heritage, as it is experienced, as it is lived in America.
I love yall (and your brothers too -- Onyeddi, Ebube, Jean Yves Boa, Djolo, and Jalen and the newest sibling, girlchild, Little Awa too).
I love you all, remember to Love yourself and to be 'YOU',
Mama Jolivette
Sister Friend Onyi and her daughter Esom moved away to Georgia this morning.
Esom showed up one January as the new little Black Girl at school, so Nadja was not alone anymore.
Nadja immediately stepped to her and asked, " Do you want to be my friend?" Esom agreed and they made 'Little Black Girl History' for the past 4 years.
They laughed, argued, cried, consoled, developed crushes, watched their Mamas struggle, bonded in battles against their brothers, yelled and screamed at each other.... the regular journey for girls their age for sure.
But, what makes me cry the most right now is knowing that those moments will stay with them. They cried and hugged last night. I got to crying too, oh it was a mess, but it was progress.
I had no idea that during all the times I was driving these Little Queens-in-Training around that they were actually LISTENING to me.
For the past few days, Esom has been saying, "Tell me a story, you know, like the time Nadja was born or the time you were young, and speak Louisiana" (side eye, I think she means Southern).
I had no idea she loved my southern... accent and stories, just as much as Nadja loves them.
May we adults never underestimate the power of human contact and conversation.
Children still watch and listen and try to become the best ... or the worse... we demonstrate to them. (Which means neither of these Baby Queens will be at a loss for ways, methods, and means to give someone a good cussing out cause they were around me for years, but only when all other methods of sanity and common sense have failed).
Most importantly, I required them to be more than they wanted to embrace. They could say 'hello in about 5 or 6 different languages, but could not say 'hello' in Bété (Nadja) or in Igbo (Esom) not even in 'Colored or Negro' but that's another Black Culture story.
So, I made Esom get her mom on the phone and Nadja get her dad on the phone to learn how to say hello in their African Ethnic (some say Tribal) tongue. It was so foreign to them they laughed and giggled so I made them put the words to beat with a rhythm.
The next day, they did not remember.... but the fact I made them do it, THEY WILL REMEMBER.
Nadja, you are a Bété / Tikar child, you have an African identity, you are not the empty- headed, souless savage your American identity claims and still tells you to be.
Esom, you are an Igbo/Iduma child, you have an African identity, you are not the empty- headed, souless savage your American identity claims and still tells you to be.
I pray to the Creator that every second you were /are in my presence that you learned how to Love and how to Survive.
Take it to the next level, learn how to thrive, in your skin, in your African Heritage, as it is experienced, as it is lived in America.
I love yall (and your brothers too -- Onyeddi, Ebube, Jean Yves Boa, Djolo, and Jalen and the newest sibling, girlchild, Little Awa too).
I love you all, remember to Love yourself and to be 'YOU',
Mama Jolivette
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