And Then There Was Tina Turner
I couldn’t decide if this was a story or a poem. It’s a bit of both.
I was only 10 years old in 1984 when the force that is Tina Turner flooded my consciousness.
I asked my mother, “Who is that woman?”
Tina was a whole vibe.
Red lips.
Wild hair.
Short skirt.
High heels.
Her voice made you stand at attention.
She rasped.
She thundered.
She stormed.
She demanded respect, and she got it.
Black women like Tina, who had names like Anna Mae Bullock, and hailed from small southern towns, had no choice but to move through life at full throttle – racism and abusive husbands be damned.
My own mother understood this. Like Tina, she had married young and fled Jim Crow and domestic violence. She, too, had to reinvent herself in order to survive.
It is no wonder, on that day in 1984, when I asked my mother, “Who is that woman?”
Her reply was filled with a kind of pride and satisfaction that told me that Tina Turner was someone to be admired.
“That’s Tina Turner,” she said with a smile.
At 10, I didn’t fully know Tina’s story. I only learned it years later when I was a grown woman, knee-deep in marriage and raising children.
I understood.
My circumstances were different, but I understood.
You snatch your life back from anyone or anything who tries to steal it and stamp it out.
You do not back down.
I found in Tina, a feminist icon.
And when I heard this week that she died, I gasped, and then I went silent.
At 83, she passed through the veil.
May the Great Tina Turner, born Anna Mae Bullock, rest in absolute love and power.
Yas, Queen. Yas.
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Wonderful, soulful tribute. Thank you, Teresa!
Beautifully said!