Of the hundreds of teens my arts program has reached in the
past 12 years, fewer than 20 have sat shotgun in my car. Many were bashfully grateful for the ride,
murmuring turn-by-turn directions to their front door. Some were intimidated by my banter; others were
uncomfortable with any silence. All of
them left behind bits of their story, perhaps as fare, and I would wait for
them to wave back at my car before disappearing into an open screen door. I
would drive away, counting the coins of their hard and glimmering truths.
Nakila made me rich. She
filled every minute of our rides with her observations, dilemmas, musings and questions.
So many questions, with that one. In the
early years, she asked about poems and slam and her team and how our program started
and how I started and where was I from and why did I write and what did I
believe in and how would she know that she’d found her voice too.
In a recent interview, artist Dario Robleto said, “I didn’t
know what an epiphany was until I had one.” The statement made me think of the tender
and defining years of my students, of their gallery of “aha moments,” of their
inevitable blossoming, of Nakila. From that passenger seat, I watched her flights
of questions manifest into poems and performances, into leadership, into a four-year
college scholarship, into ride-or-die friendships, into a love affair with the
boy she would love into manhood and heartily, I’m sure, beyond the day she died.
She evolved from sequestering herself away
from life’s uncertainties to unapologetically baring the insides of her skin to
the world. Nakila wore her uncertainties as boldly as her absolutes, which made
her endearing and enchanting to anyone who met her.
“Dasha Kelly, I have questions for you." This was less than a
month ago. She wasn’t in my car this time. She was sitting on a café stool in
my kitchen, peppering me as I put away my groceries with queries about adult
slams and self-publishing and writing residencies and her first post-graduate full-time job at a youth center.
Over the next few weeks –her final few weeks-- I watched Nakila
coach and mentor a new branch of
I’m convinced that Nakila has merely converted into energy.
She was too full of fierce electricity and love to simply transcend and leave
nothing of herself behind. Our community family collapsed with her death and
clung tightly to help one another back to our collective feet. As we gathered
and laughed and wept and celebrated and held ourselves open to one another in
my backyard, I felt Nakila turning to wave at me, letting me know it’s safe for
us all to drive on.
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