I wiped your ass before you knew you had one. I didn’t say one mumbling word while sitting on the toilet, but I heard her voice just as clearly as if she were in the room with me. After watching a medium’s TikTok on spirits walking among us, I pondered—again, on the pot; panties and pants around my ankles—exactly how much of me do they really see? Coming from generations of habitual line steppers and boundary crossers, privacy was only needed if you were up to no good and self-advocacy was disrespect that could end with a backhand worthy of an elite tennis player. Why would they suddenly ask for permission and access now in the sweet by and by?
My earliest memory of the see-through people was at the age of six, but my mother recounts tales from the tender age of three.
Quick story.
In the 1900s before helicopter parents existed, I was left to fend for myself on our swing for some time. Upon returning from whatever it is that mothers do when they leave their toddlers unsupervised in the wild, my mother described both seats swaying; me on one and the other swinging while unattended. That was whom I presume to have been my not so imaginary friend, a young blonde adorned in an 1800s burial gown and a crown of flowers. I’m not sure if my mother saw her then, but most of my family had throughout the twenty years we lived there. My mother promptly said, You don’t have to go home, but you got to get the hell up out of here. The swing was on the curb by the next trash pickup day.
Like Oda Mae Brown, I can’t summon spirits. They choose me, coming by way of songs, feelings, dreams and sometimes direct thought. Until recently, it was hard keeping track of who had the microphone, my guest speakers or my internal monologue. I know God‘s voice and to me, He’s a he, but prefers I Am. I know my present voice. And I know the other me: peculiar, whimsical, illogical, childlike with a sprinkle of rage. But the voice that joined me in the bathroom that day? My maternal grandmother without question. So, the real question became: Who else has been tagging along all these years?
And the answer to that is…it depends.
For most of my life, loved ones who’ve passed have visited me in dreams with warnings, messages or simply to provide comfort when most needed. Folks absolutely do attend their own homegoing and not just in those caskets so go all out. “You’ll be late for your own funeral” hits differently when you’ve watched someone’s spirit stroll past a stained glass window fifteen minutes into their eulogy.
In my younger, less knowledgeable years, I’ve had encounters with beings that gave little “d” energy, visit during bouts of sleep paralysis, or show up as disembodied voices that growl. Word of advice: if you fear them, they’ve already conquered you. My daddy always said prayer works and he’s never been wrong. And I’m not saying spirits can be racist, but the ones that taunted me throughout childhood did not look like me. They’d shatter glass, knock doors off the frame and lure innocent babies out into the dead of winter. That last tidbit wasn’t about me, but same house. Make of that what you will.
My left knee still isn’t right from the time I jumped off a top bunk and zoomed out of the house because some pigment-redacted ghost tried and succeeded in changing my radio station. Who doesn’t like hip hop and R&B? I sat outside for over an hour in the dark waiting on the living to return home. It was the 90s and parents really did leave us to our own devices.
I’ve entertained an angel or two as well and believe me, you’re not unaware—they have a certain air about them. I’ve had encounters with ghosts that interacted with me, like little white girl, Caroline. That’s her name now. And then there were those who had absolutely no clue I was peeking in on their afterlives. Uno reverse on that ass.
Recently, while recording poetry and story ideas in my yard, I accidentally captured several Electronic Voice Phenomena (EVP). I call them The Ghosts in my Backyard. Their appearance activated my curiosity and set me off on a kind of spiritual science project. While I’ll admit that certain abilities lessened through the years, I had to know if I’d lost sensitivity or simply stopped paying attention. This is where I’d get myself schmurdered in a horror film, but my inner child doesn’t believe that fat meat is greasy.
For the better part of two months, I’d placed Open House signs on all of my portals. I earned a few credits at The Ancestor and Battleaxe Academy for Wayward Seers as well. Turns out my grandmother still likes Mahalia Jackson. According to the EVPs captured—I’m leaving, yell and shout–-the negative ones make it known that our praise and worship sessions are annoying. Afterlife Karens, I guess. Toodles.
There’s a woman who lingers between my bell pepper and okra plants. Her energy is sweet and my right ear buzzes when she is near or wants to say hi. There’s a masculine energy of the unclean variety that liked to hang out near my grill. I’m positive he was the ringleader of the wasp attack against my delivery driver. I later read the EVP where the attack was intended for me. He’s broken the clasp of every necklace I owned until I stopped wearing them. He’s a brown frumpy blob of a shadow that schleps around and has since been vanquished to my neighbor’s backyard. The other backyardigans told me he was hiding on the roof after I anointed my property.
Then there is my godmother. She came in dream form to introduce me to both of my babies before I went into labor. Does not care for my partner and ask regularly, why is he here? And if you knew her in life, this tracks.
Mr. Willie, an elderly man with gray tufts of hair and overalls, showed up first in a premonition, then again during a faith-based tabletop discussion. He’s tall and paces between the hallway and kitchen. My Grandma, Gatekeeper of the Living Room, runs a strict program in this particular space and I see him sometimes from its threshold.
There is also a religious female entity. I think she’s family, but she does not like me tinkering with any type of divination and is really judgy. Ma’am, you are talking to me from the great beyond, but ok.
The EVP experiment was equal parts curiosity and “I’m not going crazy, and I’ll prove it.” I feel more than I see or hear but putting them together helps me know who’s who. You may still think of me as grippy sock worthy as this is all speculative and my evidence is circumstantial, but I’ve been there done that and this ain’t it. The EVPs are intelligent. The spirit of a young boy apologized after asking my daughter to come outside during our session. I did not experiment near my children intentionally. He followed me into my house. I caught him running behind me with open arms ready for an embrace. Heard his little feet too. He drowned and was still in tattered trunks.
One morning while waiting for my daughter’s bus, a motion light began to flicker off and on. My device then said “lights.” I acknowledged that I saw the lights. It then said “fire.” I confirmed that the house the light was attached to indeed had caught fire before. This was pretty much the moment I said that’s enough of this. Knee-deep into my Fuck Around, I deleted the app and went on about my day and night, only to be awakened by the lamp next to my bed shooting sparks like the Fourth of July and tripping the circuit breaker in my home. I’m still unsure if that was a Find Out or a warning, but my clasp-less necklace lay broken on the floor when I returned to my bed.
So, what did we learn?
Firstly, I’m not crazy. Secondly, maybe a little.
As an empath, it’s not the meat suits but their spirits that are overwhelming. Lights flicker when they’re nearby. Hairs stand on end. Depending on their energy I’ll get headaches, nauseous or extremely sleepy. Spirits maintain their personalities after transitioning. Most only want to check in because love does not die with the body. In contrast to my religious upbringing, those aren’t demons although they’ve been known to cause a little hell. Them my people and I’m going to stick beside them despite how I’m perceived. I’ll laugh at funny memories, cry because I still miss them and get irritated if they get too touchy. I usually apologize for tone later.
As for the extras that came with the property or tagged along—some are afraid to move on. Some don’t know that they’re supposed to. Some you have to send. And unless you want extended house guests, if you see something …no…you…didn’t. Acknowledgement equals encouragement and now you have a haint house party that takes a while to clean up behind.
I try not to poke the paranormal bear as much. My kids noticed the uptick in activity even if they didn’t understand why. I’m still a scaredy cat, but Daddy was right. Prayer works and I am divinely protected. So, I’ll stick to that. Those who mean no harm, I’ve learned to let them be. If it’s important enough, they’ll reach out.
Just like they always have.
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