“DON’T CRY FOR ME”
TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL/PHYSICAL ABUSE
My grandma—“Nanny,” as we called her—transitioned last month. I found out while I was at the gym. It felt like any other day, but there was a strange calm in the air. I didn’t hold back the tears. I let them fall quietly as I sat down on the chest press machine—how ironic, considering the weight of the news that now rested on my chest.
I’m sure people noticed me—breathing deeply, silently crying—but I didn’t care. At this point in my life, I know how important it is to listen to my body, to honor what it needs. And in a way, isn’t that the purpose of the gym? To tend to the body, even when it hurts? Maybe it was unusual because I didn’t need a machine or a supplement to get there. I feel like I owed that moment to myself—especially since I’ve long agreed to be the one who welcomes the ancestors.
I instantly remembered that I had considered calling her the night before—but didn’t. Perhaps that was her spirit’s way of whispering, I’m about to leave. Maybe she didn’t expect me to do much, or maybe she did. Either way, those tears felt like they belonged to both of us.
After crying, I finished my last set and left. There were no memory montages flashing before me—just a feeling. How she felt to me. What we endured. And how it ended.
We didn’t always have the best relationship. She may have been my first abuser. And maybe, also, the first person I ever forgave. Nanny would call me out of my name, curse me, bully me. It sounds strange to say out loud, but it’s true. I spent much of my childhood “over there”—her home both concealed my trauma and prepared me for healing, through the experiences we shared and how she processed her own.
I remember the paradox: crying to leave, then crying because I wanted to go back. There’s a term for this, a psychological disorder I can’t quite name right now, but I know it’s real. I also won’t go into the sexual abuse I experienced there at the hands of my adopted uncle—who publicly tormented me, yet privately desired my body. (Deep Breaths and Release)
I remember setting my first and last boundary with my grandmother. I was still in elementary school. One night, after being picked up from her house, I sat down and wrote her a letter. I don’t know what my parents thought when I asked for stamps. Maybe, Aww, she’s writing to her grandma, or That Brittini, always doing something creative. But this wasn’t just a letter.
It was my first dive into someone’s psyche. I wrote about how I wished she wouldn’t call me names. How I still loved her. How I cherished our time together. I even included reflection questions. Now that I think about it, that letter required a level of maturity far beyond my years. But I had it. My “old soul” was showing.
The letter arrived days later. We’d just returned from another visit “over there.” It was a school night. My mom came into my room, handed me the house phone, and said, “It’s Nanny.” I immediately thought of the letter.
I picked up the chunky white wireless phone. “Hello?” I don’t remember the exact words, only the remorse in her voice. She began with an apology. Next thing I knew, my mom was driving me over there in the middle of the night so we could talk.
I think my mom was confused—why hadn’t I told her? But what I remember most is Nanny’s confession: that she was jealous of me. I just listened. She said I was exactly who she wanted to be—free, creative, expressive.
It blew my mind.
We cried together. She reached out. I hugged her. And from that night forward, she kept her promise: she never verbally abused me again.
It was awkward at first. She’d retreat to her back room. We didn’t speak much. I moved around quietly until my mom came to pick me up. But eventually, things softened. In my adult years, Nanny would tell me I was her “best friend.”
The last time I saw her was on Mother’s Day. She told me what would be her final story. I shared that I had started tap dancing. Her eyes lit up. “Oh really?” she said. Then she told me her mother—my great-grandmother—used to tap dance professionally with Louis Armstrong.
I had just returned from New Orleans, where I’d spent time at Armstrong Park and the New Orleans African American Museum. I remember staring at his artifacts, wondering why they felt so important. Her story confirmed it: another portal opening, another invitation to connect with an ancestor I’d never met.
Before I left, I made sure to say goodbye. Even though she was in the back room and my aunt discouraged me from bothering her—I didn’t care. This was my Nanny. I was her Brits. I was going to say goodbye.
I’m so glad I did.
I knocked and opened the door. When I hugged her, it felt like I gathered all her bones into my arms. She let out a nervous chuckle at the way they cracked together. I knew she didn’t have much time left. And so did she.
After that day in the gym, it was a week before I cried again. Two weeks later, I almost cried while dancing at Motor City Wine to a house remix of “I’ll Be Around” by The Spinners. That was our song after a long trip we took together. I almost cried again at a Big Sean concert, when he performed “One Man Can Change the World”—a tribute to his grandmother. But I held it in. I stayed quiet. I only said what was necessary. Communicated with stares and hums. I knew the tears would come eventually.
And then, they did.
One day I went to Dabls Bead Museum with the intention of painting outside beneath a tree. It began to rain. I packed up. I nearly left. But something told me to stay. So I did. I laid down in the grass, arms stretched wide, like an X, and surrendered.
The painting had just been a decoy. A way to keep myself busy, to avoid grief’s invitation. But now, I accepted it.
The tears came. (Okay—I took a couple puffs of homegrown first.) But once my body relaxed, I let it all go. I cried like a baby. And then… I danced.
I pulled what looked like wheat and laid it around the tree—an offering to Nanny. And then I rejoiced. Because she finally got what she wanted. And I’m doing what she wanted me to do: celebrate.
In that moment, I understood—my grandma was my first teacher. My introduction to old-school hoodoo. The kind rooted in the Baptist Church and the Christian Religion. The kind who mopped the carpet from back to front. Who scrubbed couch cushions every Sunday. Who spent 90% of her time in the prayer closet, rebuking the unseen, hanging photos of her mama and her mama’s mama over her bed. She had prophetic dreams. She told stories of the time before she got saved—dancing to The Temptations at Baker’s Keyboard Lounge in Detroit, MI, hips leading before she entered the room, “Skinny Minny,” dressed to the nines.
She raised me to know where I came from—not through lectures, but through memory, naming, and storytelling. Through her, I learned the sacred and the messy.
She didn’t hide her mistakes. She offered them with scripture. It felt like I was the chosen one to receive these stories. My cousins would be watching TV or asleep, but I would sit at her feet, taking it in. The stories shifted with her mood and the hour.
She was a night owl. And when I was with her, so was I. I’d walk into the living room at 2 AM and find her sitting in the dark with her Pepsi, windows open, thunder clapping. I loved it.
I never questioned her ways. I just kept adding them to the list of reasons I loved her. Now I recognize them as rituals. And now I see—she prepared me for these gifts long before I could fully understand them.
I don’t remember every story—just the most jarring ones. Maybe she was speaking to my bloodline, not my brain. She’d always leave me with two warnings: that the rapture was coming, and that she was ready to go home to the Lord.
“Don’t you be all sad, crying when I go home,” she’d say.
Out of respect, I’d nod—wondering when that day would come, and whether I’d be left behind. (A reference that felt terrifying, thanks to the Left Behind movies that played endlessly throughout my childhood.)
Who knew the rapture would come in 2025?
And who knew she’d leave me behind with her stories—and the ability to tell them?