Ada B. Wells

Ada B. Wells is not her real name, but she talks about Ida B. Wells who refused to give up her seat on the train long before Rosa Parks could even ride the bus without her mother. We had just met, and her furry top hat sat over her hair. She was lamenting the state of her braids. The state of her court case. Her life as a black woman in public housing in Northampton, Massachusetts. Supposed to be the CommonWealth, but she is not common enough. She taught me the phrase “I have never called you outside your name.” Which means, I have always respected you enough to call you exactly what you told me you were called. And when you call me a “bitch” in the tenants association office, I start to wonder if you deserve that courtesy. She told me Miss Ida B. Wells almost got lynched. The way she said lynch in her Texas accent made me forget it was my last name and jarred me when I recalled its true meaning. Ida B. Wells almost got strung up in a tree. Ada remembers the KKK coming to her yard when she was five. So she has PTSD in common with me. She says Ida is one of her spirit guides, and she used to channel her in a one-woman show. I tend to think she never stopped.

I want to get a hat like Ada’s but maybe in a brighter color. I gave her the business card for the lawyer that saved me and my sons from the lead house. She admired the Highlander, and I said, “I bought it with lead paint money.” I hope she calls Howie. He’s one of the only lawyers I’ve met who returns phone calls. She and I agree the word “magistrate” leaves a bad taste in our mouths. Ada was late to the support group, and I waited with the two facilitators for almost thirty minutes. I said I felt like there was someone out there who was meant to walk in. Even though it was my first group in years. And I have not fully wrapped my head around the fact that I may be psychic. And she came in, papers flapping and sat down and exhaled. She went first, after the ground rules disclaimer Tori always makes. Tori is blind, which somehow makes her even better at domestic violence counseling. You know she’s meeting you where you are. And she may be particularly unbiased and adept at judging emotion through our voices. I want to call Ada and have her come braid my hair before court. Weave a little B. Wells spirit in between the strands. She told me hair braiding is one of her side hustles. I smiled and told her I went to fourth grade in Jamaica.

When I shared about my felonious baby daddy and the hate he dusted over me and my boys, she sucked her teeth. I used to run support groups in prisons, she said. Most of those men don’t deserve a woman like you. When I fed the meter and gave her the lawyer’s card, she suggested I give her a ride up the street. I would have if I hadn’t just bought $2 worth of Northampton Parking Authoritie’s best real estate. We walked along, tall strides matched evenly. She was going to meet some people for a meal. What will they do without me? she sing-songed and laughed. We exchanged numbers on the street. I gave her mine. She called me and started walking away. When I lifted my phone to my ear, she said, you hear Ada calling you child? I said yes, and she was gone.