Jody

I need this to hurt less. Way less.

I met Jody Harris in passing, what seems like a million lifetimes ago. I was seriously exploring leaving Atlanta, and I was even thinking about relocating to Tennessee. We were Facebook friends, and somehow or another, we'd started talking on the phone about Chattanooga. My fear was that it wouldn't be Black enough. But Jody was able to provide several examples of Black businesses and events in Chattanooga, that I would find interesting. I enjoyed our little chats, as we'd began to get to know one another. One day, he up and disappeared. I heard nothing.

But suddenly, I looked up on Facebook and learned that he was in a relationship, and later got married. I wasn't too attached to him at the time, so I let it ride. A few years later, he'd began commenting on my posts again. Eventually, we'd started talking on the phone again, and he'd told me that his marriage had gone down in flames.

We'd started an attempt at rekindling, but he did something I was not okay with, so I decided to friendzone him. One day, he began to share how lonely he was. I admitted to him what he'd done that led me to realize that we could no longer get to know one another romantically. He immediately apologized. He'd had no idea how he'd been perceived, and he admitted that he'd gotten a large part of his idea of manhood from barbershop talk. He had no clue that he'd come across as uncaring, he thought that's what masculinity was.

I was genuinely impressed with how he took what I told him and used it to make himself a better person. His self-reflection in that moment was everything.

As time went on, his health started to decline. He was in and out of hospitals, fighting infection after infection. He eventually had some toes amputated and they were discussing taking his foot. He talked to me about his fear of death and how he wasn't ready to go. He'd told me how he'd talked to Dres, as they'd shared similar health challenges, and Dres had been his rock and his sign of strength. And then Dres died. It shook him. Jody was scared. Jody didn't want to go. Another friend of his, Michal Knight, had died from health complications also.

Jody texted me last month, to tell me about the upcoming fundraiser he was going to have soon. I assured him I'd be there. Saturday night, I was in my car, when I got an alarm on my phone. That evening was Jody's fundraiser, but I'd missed it. My alarm went off at 10pm, but the fundraiser was to go from 6pm to 9pm. I immediately called him to apologize. I got a weird message and the phone disconnected. Did he block me?! Was he angry at me, thinking I'd blown off his fundraiser? I got home and called him from my work phone, and got the same strange message. At least I knew I wasn't blocked.

I tried his phone again, the next early evening. Same strange message. Then I Googled him. And I found his obituary. Not again. Please God, not again. I looked on his Facebook page, and realized that he'd made his page so that no one could post on it, and he could not be tagged. No one in the Atlanta underground arts/music scene seemed to know. I knew that I had to do a post to let his loved ones in this city know that he was gone. He deserved that. I assume that his bio family was far removed from his extended family in Atlanta, but those of us in the loop know that the extended family is just as real as the bio family.

So I posted. And I cried. And I grieve. I'd always assumed that the more people you know who die, the easier it becomes to deal with. I was wrong. Rest in heaven, Jody. Hug Dres for me, and I'll carry you with me, always.