Tiana

From a young age, I would get into trouble for being loud. For not watching my mouth.

I think I was born to yell.

So why was I always being told to be quiet? To stand still, to act right?

The only relief I found was at my dance studio. When I was dancing, I could make myself as big and dramatic as I wanted. It didn’t matter that I was loud, because the music was loud, too.

You were one of the first teachers that let me be as big and loud as I needed to be. You encouraged it.

You were eighteen or nineteen by the time I started competing with the dance team at our studio. Just out of high school, and you were already a teacher and choreographer. Highly regarded by the other teachers, loved by the other dancers. Looked up to, by me.

It’s so surreal to think that I am now the age you were when I decided you were the kind of woman I wanted to be.

As I got older, I began to resent my own mother. I was never sure why, but I hosted a growing disdain for the way she acted, the way she presented herself. Looking back, I realize that I hated the way she made herself smaller. She stepped to the side to make a path for the men in her life. She bent over backwards for others, at the expense of her own spine. She was always on a restrictive diet; she was obsessed with keeping herself as slender as possible. She never spoke loudly, and she always shushed me.

I remember making a promise to myself to never let myself be demeaned, made little by those around me. My mother didn’t inspire that in me- you did.

Tiana, you were the first woman to show me that it was okay to not be small. To be big-bodied and supple. You encouraged me to be as dramatic and emotional as I could. To express myself through the artform we both loved. To yell and laugh shamelessly, to curse and be vain.

At the age of nineteen, you would stand on your own feet, demand the attention you knew you deserved, and root for the little girls you taught to do the same. I can never thank you enough for that.

I’m older now, and you’re gone. When I heard the news, I was dazed and confused. It took me days to fully process the fact that you had died. It had been years since I’d seen you, and I’d moved on to new studios and new dance teams in different states. But I haven’t yet encountered a teacher that stuck with me the way you had. No one had ever instilled in me the same infatuation for my own bold femininity as you had. And I didn’t know how to deal with that loss.

As I went about my days, though, I realized that I had never really lost you. I still walked, whether it was to classes or into a party, with my shoulders back and my weight in my hips, the way you taught. I dance whenever I can, wherever there’s room, and make it a performance of my confidence every single time. The way you always wanted me to. I’m not ashamed to be loud, to express anger, and to demand the attention I garner. My mother didn’t teach me that- you did. You nurtured and pushed the woman you knew I would become. Or that’s what I like to think.

You were a woman of humor, a woman of love, feeling, and art. A woman with a big figure and dark skin, with lip piercings and a beautiful smile. A woman with a heart too big for her chest. A woman I will always credit, and will always be grateful to have met.

You were a force that was taken too soon. You were loved, and you will always be remembered.

Thank you, Tiana.