I Could Have Been A Nolan Wells

I could have been a Nolan Wells.

In 2016, I was invited to Nocturnal Wonderland by a teammate on the collegiate dance team I was part of during my freshman year of community college. I don’t owe anyone anonymity, but as I tell this story, I will be making up names for individuals who were involved.

Let’s say this teammate’s name is Marcy.

Marcy, a white girl who was also a freshman on our team, extended me a last-minute invite to Nocturnal Wonderland, which I later found out was a rave. She was going with another one of our teammates, Lucy, who is also (you guessed it) a white girl and a freshman on the team.

To tell this story adequately, the intersections of their identities must be specified. This will make more sense as the story goes on.

I was one of three other Black girls on our team; the remaining nine girls on the team were, yes, palm-colored. It was well known that I was one of the more well-rounded dancers on the team. Marcy even confirmed it. Once in practice, she stated, “Tavi is one of the best dancers on the team, and even better, she’s humble about it.”

And it was true. I’ve always known that I am talented. I’ve never been one to brag; my work ethic speaks for itself.

Despite my acknowledgement of this, I’ve grown accustomed to fighting tooth and nail (for years) to prove my worth amongst a sea of poorly rhythmic white girls. Unfortunately for them, my light could never be dimmed.

“Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.”

I had mastered the art of both.

So, you can imagine the jealousy seething out of some of these girls when I hit the dance floor. Not to mention, I am neurodivergent, kind, and bubbly, which also tends to rub others the wrong way. As a Black girl, I guess I am not allowed to possess any of those traits. In my early twenties, I was more naive about others' intentions and had a harder time deciphering the true intentions of others. Honestly, I genuinely believed that because I woke up and chose to be a good, kind-hearted person, others were operating the same way. Little did I know that that misperception would land me in many harmful situations with untrustworthy people entering into adulthood.

Don’t worry, ya’ll, I’ve learned my lesson now at the ripe age of twenty-nine. My boundaries are intact. Pattern recognition on lock. And baby, my throat chakra is live.

I’ve also finally been diagnosed as neurodivergent, so reflecting on this experience in particular puts things in a better perspective for me.

Now that you know my positionality on the team, we can continue with the story.

When Marcy had extended me the invite, to be honest, I was hesitant. I had no idea what Nocturnal Wonderland was. I also wasn’t close with any of my teammates. Most of them had known each other before auditioning for the team, as they went to high school in the same area.

I was a lone wolf. The only one coming from a different city. However, I was eager to build community and make friends. So, I told Marcy that I would talk to my mom about it and get back to her. Mind you, the rave was in like three days, so I had to make a decision quickly.

When I got home from dance practice, I talked to my mom about Marcy and Lucy inviting me to Nocturnal. I had only been to my first hip-hop concert my senior year of high school. I had no idea what to expect. We ended up looking up pictures to get an idea of what I had been invited to. Reflecting on it, what we saw would immediately bring up feelings of overwhelm in me now, but back then I was not diagnosed with neurodivergence and generalized anxiety. Naturally, I learned to ignore my needs to perform as a neurotypical. Again, the feelings of anxiety came up, but I decided to put myself “out there” in an attempt to make friends.

My mom ended up being okay with it. She trusted me and was glad I seemed to make new friends. Because it was my first big girl event, I paid for my ticket. Then my mom helped me pick out my outfit.

A red tutu and a rhinestone-studded bra with tennis shoes. I had my hair in freshly done individual braids, and they were up in a high ponytail like Beyoncé. Glitter dusted all over me like Ke$ha. I looked so cute.

The day of the event, a wave of anxiety hit me as I was driving over to Marcy’s house. I took a deep breath when I parked near her driveway, and then I walked up to the front door with my belongings.

Marcy opened the door; Lucy was there getting ready.

The energy was already off.

I was fully dressed.

Marcy and Lucy exchanged their usual “girls-girl” compliments towards me in an attempt to make conversation, at the time, which I thought was a genuine compliment. (face palm)

As I was sitting on the couch while they finished getting ready, I overheard them talking about more people arriving. This is information that I was not privy to. It also became apparent to me that they were used to partying. The anxiety hit me like a ton of bricks— again.

I had partied in high school, but like, exclusively with the group of girls that I had been friends with since middle school. And to be real, we were all “late bloomers” or whatever the fuck that means. We drank alcohol, smoked weed, and skinny dipped together for the first time during our senior year in a suburban backyard. And we were always looking after each other. Nothing too crazy. Besides, I’ve never been fond of alcohol, so I was always the least drunk of the group, anyway.

Marcy and Lucy were already drinking, which made me feel uneasy. On top of that, more people that I was unfamiliar with had shown up. My social anxiety was through the roof. I shook it off and put on my best smile like I’ve been conditioned to do.

It appeared that Marcy had a crush on one of the guys that had arrived.

The pick-me behavior started to present itself.

Now our group went from three to seven.

Us three girls and four guys.

All of them knew each other, and I was starting to feel myself become the outcast of the group.

I left my car at Marcy’s house, and one of the guys, Jax, drove us to the rave. Jax was on the collegiate cheer team at our community college, so I had spoken with him a few times. He was Black and gay, so I felt a bit more comfortable around him.

I did my best to remain positive about the situation despite the many alarms my body revealed to me.

I attempted to bond with my new “friends” through music, one of my special interests, as most neurodivergent individuals do. It seemed to be going well.

We got to the rave. It was a lot for me to take in. There was so much going on. Thousands of half-naked (or fully naked) people, flashy lights, insanely loud music.

Definitely not the most ideal place for an overly sensitive baddie like myself.

My main focus was to stay with the group. I was anxious about getting lost.

When the sun started to set, the group found a spot at a set they wanted to see. Jax parted ways to meet up with another friend.

The music was of no interest to me, to be deadass.

Being there made me realize very quickly that I did not like EDM.

Everyone in the crowd was vibing to the music.

I was ruminating about staying close to the group for the sake of my safety.

It was apparent to me that my safety didn’t matter to them, as I was pushed on the outskirts of the dance circle.

All of this felt so confusing to me.

Why would they invite me to come if they were just going to exclude me?

It hadn’t quite dawned on me that the invitation wasn’t genuine.

I started to wonder where Jax was and created a plan in my head to find him. “At least I feel more comfortable around him,” was my thought process.

My thoughts are interrupted by Lucy tapping me on the shoulder, holding her palm out, and casually presenting me with half of a white pill as she’s fist-pumping.

Now the group is staring at me, and I’m feeling an immense amount of pressure to do something. I take the pill and put it in my mouth.

They all turn back around and pretend that I’m non-existent again.

Tired of feeling left out, I text Jax and ask him where he is, and I end up meeting up with him.

I told him that I took a pill. He was really nice about it and looked after me.

The friend that Jax met up with had us huddle up. He was distributing pills out of his fanny pack. The anxiety alarm set off in my body. I felt like I was in danger. I was. I held the pill in my hand, balling my hand up into a fist. He asked where the pill went. I froze.

“Take it!” he responded angrily.

I frantically took another half.

Jax turned a blind eye to the tension and took his pill.

When it hit me, I remember trying to remain calm, but my anxiety had already set the tone for the remainder of my trip.

At one point, my body just really wanted to dance, so I did. And freely, might I add.

Not even realizing that a bunch of disgusting men were preying on me, excited about the idea of taking advantage of me.

I hope you’ve deduced that I’m not, at all, male-centered. In fact, I was queer at the time; I just hadn’t realized it yet. However, it was still an extremely dangerous situation for me to have been in as a young girl.

The deep urge to dance to that shitty EDM music was fueled by the ecstasy, and the ecstasy only.

After that feeling wore off, I just felt weird.

Everything else in between leaving the rave and getting back to Marcy’s house felt like a blur, but at least we made it off the rave grounds safely.

We had a dance performance the next morning.

I thought I would be able to sleep it off and be fine.

Naive little Tavi started to realize that was not the case. I felt horrible. Marcy and Lucy seemed to be fine. They didn’t even care to look for me after I left the group. They never asked if I was okay. And on top of that, we were being interrogated by our other teammates.

This girl named Baylor was a huge bully, and she was the main instigator.

“What did you guys do?”

“Did you party hard?”

“Bad girls!”

She would express it in a sarcastic, snarky tone.

Marcy and Lucy denied doing anything.

At this point, I’m starting to feel immense shame about being involved in all of it. As a neurodivergent person, I can’t lie. I didn’t feel well, and I needed support. I felt woozy and dehydrated. Also still feeling disoriented by Marcy and Lucy’s behavior towards me, I realized in that moment that I couldn’t trust either of them. I kept myself together as best as I could until our performance was over, and then I drove myself home.

Somehow, I made it home safe.

It took a while for the comedown, and then it hit: the anxiety flooding my veins again, only this time, I couldn’t shake it off. It was paralyzing. The ruminating started up again. I was terrified. Doomscrolling on WebMD, trying to figure out what I was experiencing. How to help myself. Eventually, I realized this was something I could not deal with alone. Feeling shame all over again, I had manically confessed what happened to my sister.

My sister hugged me. She had no idea what to do as I cried in her arms.

I mustered up the courage to confide in my mom.

She responded with disappointment in my choices. No real concern for what had happened or if I was okay, which reinforced the shame that I had already felt.

I felt alone all over again.

I remained on the dance team. Mostly because my mom didn’t want to lose out on the money she had invested in my participation for the season. I felt obligated to push through, but the truth is, I wanted to quit. I take full responsibility for taking the pill and not having strong enough boundaries at the time, for having a hard time reading social cues and recognizing when someone didn’t have my best interest at heart. And in the same instance, I couldn’t help but feel set up by Marcy and Lucy. And disappointed in Jax and his friend. Let down by my own mother.

I needed help.

They were supposed to be my teammates.

I was attempting to make friends.

My friends in high school would have looked out for me in this situation. That’s what we did for each other.

But these kids were in a whole different playing field.

I had never been exposed to hard drugs before Lucy presented them to me. I didn’t even know that anyone in our group had them.

I slipped into a depression; fighting hard for my serotonin to recalibrate. I fell, and I fell hard, on my ass. Fucking up our dance routines, my grades tanking. And to my dismay, my teammates seemed to love it.

I wasn’t on my game. No longer the star.

When it finally became apparent to my mom that I was struggling to recover, she took me to the doctor. I was prescribed Zoloft and started to receive counseling.

I went a few weeks without adequate support.

All I had was optimism and faith that I would make it through. To this day, I wholeheartedly believe that my ancestors were protecting me.

It felt isolating to be screaming out for help and feel like nobody was taking my pain seriously.

To make matters worse, my obvious struggles didn’t stop our coach from being in my ear, telling me that I had to be the glue to hold the team together. Like, hoe is you cool? Our team collectively sucks. We are competing against university dance teams. Having ONE star dancer is not going to change that.

When Baylor found out what happened, I never heard the end of it.

When we went to Nationals in Florida, she decided to give me the nickname “Oct-Ecstasy” as a way to torment me any chance she got. They treated me like a drug addict instead of their teammate who was experiencing something challenging. On top of this, I was still expected to perform as normal.

And I wasn’t able to. I felt further isolated.

My social anxiety was at its most heightened state. I was experiencing panic attacks, and I wanted to be left in the hotel room. There was no one around me that I could trust.

Luckily, my mom had gotten us all iPhones before I left on that trip, so I was able to FaceTime her as much as I needed to. And it was a lot.

I was struggling, and my teammates didn’t care. They just wanted to party.

I kept my head down and stayed to myself until the end of the trip.

When I got home from Florida, I packed my dance team uniforms and poms to return them to my coach.

I never looked back.

None of them would have cared if I died.

It took some time, but I started to feel like myself again.

Mentally, physically, and emotionally. That experience changed me, altered my brain chemistry; literally and figuratively.

It made me wary of who I consider to be my friends.

If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have gone.

It was a horrible way for me to be confronted with the fact that I experience generalized anxiety. It had always been there; the pill had just brought it to the forefront.

Additionally, I couldn’t escape the reality that attempting to cultivate friendship or “sisterhood” with white girls wasn’t safe for me.

I could have been a Nolan Wells.

I could have died in the name of exclusion and peer pressure, but as long as they get to label me a pill popper and keep on partying in secret, that’s totally fine.

There are so many Black kids who party with white kids thinking they are on the same playing field.

WE ARE NOT.

White kids have far more access to hard drugs than Black kids do for various reasons. And they ARE doing them regularly and casually.

White kids also have a moral obligation to protect themselves AND each other before they EVER take the risk of holding themselves accountable for the harm they inflict on the Black kids they call their “friends.”

Black parents also play a role in and need to be held accountable for integrating their Black children into predominantly white spaces with the perception that it is inherently safer for them. It is, in fact, more physically, mentally, emotionally, and psychologically damaging than it would ever be for a Black child to grow up around other Black kids.

Especially if they are not provided with the support needed to navigate racism, macro-aggressions, and micro-aggressions inflicted by white people.

My pure little heart was not prepared to navigate these experiences as a growing child.

I am sharing my story to spread awareness on the matter in hopes of sparking a deeper conversation about the trauma and harm the Black youth is exposed to when they are integrated into predominantly white spaces.

Not only is it a perpetual fight, foot on necks, to prove our worthiness in the space, the pressure to perform and show up perfect, but we also have to fight to simply stay alive.

A hateful, racist white person will participate in wrapping a noose around a Black person’s neck, and then say that they hung themselves.

Rest In Power, Trey Reed.

They will feed a Black kid drugs and when they overdose, declare it death by suicide.

Rest In Power, Lauren Smith-Fields.

They will take a Black kid on a trip to an island, and when he shows up missing, they will claim to have no recollection of what happened to them.

Rest In Power, Nolan Wells.

Say their names! ALL OF THEM.

Ashlee Jenae.

Tamala Horsford.

Alonzo Brooks.

Kendrick Johnson.

Brenda Rawls.

Breonna Taylor.

Trayvon Martin.

These are just a handful. Sadly, there are more.

Just because the space appears to be open to integration doesn’t mean that we are truly wanted there.

Believe me, I had to find out the hard way.

I just ended up being lucky enough to have made it out alive.

And every time I come across a Black person who has died at the hands of a failed system, I grieve for them, their families, and the realization that they could have been me.

Some Black kids end up living the rest of their lives addicted to drugs, incarcerated, or dying at the hands of these horrific systems and traumatic experiences, while the white kids leave unscathed. This dynamic further perpetuates that white people don’t need to hold themselves accountable for their toxic behaviors.

There NEEDS to be an adequate change.

The Black youth deserve to be treated as humans, too.

The Black youth deserve justice when they die or are subjected to abuse at the hands of white people.

I will never shut the fuck up about this.

No justice, no peace.