09/27/2026
There are some stories that sit heavy on the soul — not just because of what happened, but because of what they represent. The recent death of Tasia Fortune, a 29 year old Black mother of four found hanging from a tree in Mississippi, is one of those stories. And as uncomfortable as it is to talk about, I refuse to pretend that this doesn’t echo something deeper, older, and painfully familiar in the African American experience.
Because whether the perpetrators were Black or white… whether the motive was personal, drug related, or something else entirely… whether the scene was staged or spontaneous…
The impact hits the same nerve.
The same historical wound.
The same generational memory that too many of us carry in our bodies.
A Black woman was found hanging from a tree.
In Mississippi.
In 2026.
And for many of us, that alone was enough to send a shockwave through our spirit — because we know what that image has meant in this country. We know what it has been used for. We know the terror it was designed to create. We know the message it was meant to send.
So when I read that the medical examiner determined she was already dead before her body was placed there…
when I read that the scene was “staged”…
when I read that her mother still has no answers, no cause of death, no timeline, no clarity…
I felt something inside me tighten.
Because this isn’t just about one woman.
This is about the fear that keeps resurfacing in our communities — fear that should have been buried with slavery, lynching, and racial terror, yet somehow finds new ways to show up in our lifetime.
And I keep asking myself:
Why must fear be used as a weapon?
Why must people invoke terror into the lives of others?
Why must violence be staged, inflicted, repeated, justified, or disguised behind “reasons”?
Why must we keep reliving echoes of the past in a world that claims to be moving forward?
I don’t understand the logic. I don’t understand the cruelty. I don’t understand the need to make someone’s death a spectacle — especially a Black woman who was already struggling, already vulnerable, already fighting her own battles.
And I think about her mother — a woman who received a call that her daughter did not die by hanging, only to learn that her daughter’s death was still a homicide, still violent, still senseless, still staged.
I think about her four children, now scattered among family and friends, two facing adoption.
I think about the community that felt the shock of that image before they even knew the details.
And I think about us — African Americans who have lived through centuries of fear based control, intimidation, and dehumanization.
We carry the memory of trees.
We carry the memory of ropes.
We carry the memory of staged terror.
We carry the memory of being used as symbols instead of human beings.
So when something like this happens — even when the story becomes complicated, even when the suspects are Black, even when the motive is unclear — the impact still lands in the same historical place.
Because fear doesn’t care about race.
Terror doesn’t care about motive.
Violence doesn’t care about context.
Trauma doesn’t care about details.
What we see…
what we feel…
what we remember…
is the image.
The echo.
The pattern.
And I’m tired. I’m tired of watching these stories unfold.
I’m tired of seeing our people harmed, staged, discarded, misunderstood, and left without answers.
I’m tired of living in a world where we still have to ask, “Why would someone do this?”
I’m tired of knowing that fear is still a currency people use to control, intimidate, or retaliate.
But I’m also committed.
Committed to speaking about it.
Committed to naming it.
Committed to refusing silence.
Committed to honoring the lives of those who deserved better. Committed to building communities where we can talk about these things openly, honestly, and without shame.
Because if we don’t talk about it, we carry it alone. And we’ve carried enough alone.
This message is not about blame.
It’s not about assumptions.
It’s not about speculation.
It’s about impact.
It’s about history.
It’s about truth.
It’s about the emotional reality of being Black in America and watching these patterns repeat themselves in new forms.
Tasia Fortune deserved better.
Her children deserved better.
Her mother deserved better.
Our community deserves better.
And we deserve the right to speak about these things without fear, without hesitation, and without being told to “move on.”
I’m speaking this today because silence has never protected us.
Clarity has.
Truth has.
Community has.
And I will always choose clarity over comfort.
May her story be told.
May her life be honored.
May her children be protected.
May her mother receive answers.
And may we continue to confront the uncomfortable truths that still exist in our lifetime — because pretending they don’t exist has never made us safer.
