I interned at the Schomburg Center for a summer as a senior in college. I walked to the center every day. Every day a group of Black men was sitting close to each other. I could tell they were kin. They weren’t touching but they did seem bound up together. Apart but one on top of the other all the same. Mangled together beautifully. Not sure of top from bottom.
My friends would speak to them. I let the others’ salutations handle my own. The mangled men noticed.
I think a lot about how we are all bound up together as humans. Even strangers who don’t know who you are or who you would be can stick out a finger and find a tender spot in a very obscure way.
Those kind men named me Quiet Thunder. They recognized two very important things about me. And we were complete strangers. They took their naming seriously, calling me that every time I passed. I begin to take it as affection. They were reliable. Never expecting me to say much. I liked that.
I think about those men a lot. More than I realized I did while writing this. their nickname is one of my favorites cause sometimes strangers be knowing.
