Page 2: coming for us. Your words were so...descriptive. And horrifying. I don’t know anybody personally who lived through Tulsa. Nana could remember stories of slavery but she wasn’t there. But now I can say I know someone who I care about, someone I love, who survived the biggest racial battle the nation has ever seen. We all took a breath after I finished. It was a breath for us and for you. I hope you felt it. It was as if we all collectively forgot and then remembered we weren’t breathing. And I looked at those people, Virginia and Gerald and Archie and Marie and Thomas and Jerome. I looked at my Chicago family and I saw in their eyes that they cared for you too. They loved you too and they prayed in however way they prayed, for your safety. Gerald asked me if I could go down to the university. Copy the letter and give them out to the people. Give one out to Fred too. I almost cold cocked him real good because you, Josephine Addler are NOT a symbol. You’re not some town hero to be gawked at. You are a person. You are my person. But I swallowed my rage and simply told him I would ask your permission, but that you’d undoubtedly say no. I feel bad sometimes, I think. I help out with the breakfast program and I give out flyers. I speak at rallies and I talk about our divinity. Or at least the words leave my mouth when they should. I place myself in the middle of this big symbol for change. I hear about how we are part of a trinity of power against this oncoming war. The Black Panthers are the defense. The BLA is the offense and we are healers. We are the cross to their sword and shield. And yet all I keep thinking about, all I keep wanting to talk about, is you. And to know you’re ok. I think if I ever got married, I’d name my child Tulsa, boy or girl. But