The first time I saw Tamora Israel, she was commanding the stage at the Provincetown TEDx Talks. This is not an exaggeration; she owned it. I, along with over 300 other audience members, sat in awe as we watched her confidently blend poetry and conversation, sharing her ideas on “New rules for consent in the post #MeToo era.” She was bold, articulate, funny and relatable. A down-to-earth superstar in the making. It was obvious; this woman had talent. I was fascinated.

Throughout the past year, I’ve gotten to know her through her open mic nights, as she faithfully encouraged me to conquer my fear of public speaking. It’s safe to say, I hit the jackpot in the mentor department.

I recently sat down with Israel, 36, to learn about the recipe responsible for creating such an accomplished poet, actress and advocate. According to her TEDx Talk poem, she likes her “lessons dipped in questions, topped with information and sprinkled with patience.” Needless to say, this is a fantastic recipe; one I’m happy to share.

Israel was born and raised in Freeport, NY, which she proudly refers to as “Strong Island.” I laughed, as I’d never heard of the town before. She gladly filled me in, boasting, “Freeport High School Red Devils! Amazing football team!” She, along with her four brothers, were raised by a single mother. Her step-father arrived when she was nine, and her parents are still together, 26 years later. “It was a long road, but she loved him. She still does. I remember their wedding,” she reminisced. “I was so mad. I was jealous because I’m a momma’s girl. I love my mom. I had her first…don’t take my mom,” she said with a confident smile. 

She has fond memories of growing up with her cousins. “My house was the house that everyone came to. My cousins would spend weeks at my house and we’d even go to school together. They were like my sisters. Your cousins are your first friends.” Though grateful for those fun times, she described the difficulties of fitting in at school.  “I was born weird,” she said. “I’m just a weird person, and my cousins were always cool with my weird.” She recalled them standing up for her when she was being picked on by other kids. I couldn’t imagine this confident, cheerful woman being picked on. I asked her to elaborate on what it was that made her “weird.” She was quick to reply, “I couldn’t sit still. I would literally just jump in place, or rock back and forth. And, I’ve always been a hugger. Now, kids in high school say, ‘I love you, it’s so good to see you!’  It wasn’t like that back then. You didn’t hug people. It’s just not a thing that you did. I used to see people that I wanted to be my friends, and I would draw their names in bubble letters to give to them. And they’d say, ‘I didn’t ask you for this. That’s so stupid.’ I just wanted them to be happy,” she said. I shook my head, picturing young Tamora being picked on, simply for being friendly. We talked about how this experience describes the essence of school bullying: picking on kids who don’t neatly fit in a box.  She sighed and said, “It took a long time for me to understand that there’s nothing wrong with me because I’m weird. My personality is different. It’s just who I am. I like my weird. Learning where I fit in, and then making my own space, was really hard to figure out when I was younger.” Thankfully, she has it figured out now. “I’m just a weird person. I say weird shit. I’ve learned how to not condition my weird, but ease people into my weird. I can’t just let it all out at once,” she said, laughing. Her laugh was contagious.

Unfortunately, I soon learned that being friendly wasn’t her only barrier to fitting in. “I used to have really bad teeth,” she said. In high school, a botched braces removal stripped part of her teeth and enamel. She explained, “My teeth became brown. It changed my personality, because I didn’t smile anymore. What did I have to smile about? My teeth were brown. So, it wasn’t just about being weird anymore. It changed how people approached me. I just didn’t have any friends.”

We sat in that memory for a bit, both of us inhaling that familiar adolescent pain. It only worsened as she said, “I dropped out of school. Not just because of the teeth. I just didn’t care. And, I thought I was dumb. I learned differently. I like to use my hands. I’m a very tactile person. I need to touch things to understand how they work and I like taking things apart.  When I’m learning, if it’s not tactile, it needs to be extremely repetitive. One lesson is not going to do it for me.” I wondered if anyone realized her needs. “They put me in cluster classes for English, and everything else, not really,” she said. “I didn’t have an IEP or anything like that. I don’t want to say I fell through the cracks, because that seems very dramatic. I just didn’t have the help I needed. They didn’t really put plans in place back then.” She attended summer school every year, to no avail. “I just couldn’t learn. Not the way they wanted me to,” she said, with her eyes looking weary. My heart was aching for her as she relived the feelings of failure.  She rescued me by saying, “And that’s really where poetry kind of saved my life. Because it gave me an outlet.” I shook my head. Here’s a young girl failing high school, yet writing poetry. Talk about falling through the cracks. 

After school, life did not get easier for Israel. “Unfortunately, we lost our house. My mom, dad and my little brother moved from hotel to hotel, while I stayed with my uncle. That’s when I discovered alcohol.” I quietly sighed as she detailed the consequences of falling through those cracks. “I didn’t understand at the time that I was depressed,” she said. “I knew I was sad, but there was no one to explain how to deal with this situation. We lost our house. We lost a lot of our stuff because we couldn’t take it with us. We had to sell it or throw it away because we couldn’t afford storage. My family was disbanded.” I replied with the only thing that came to mind, “Trauma.” She agreed. “Yeah. And I didn’t see it. I didn’t understand it. My parents had a hard enough time trying to feed themselves. There was no room for therapy. So, you just do what you gotta do.” 

She lasted with her uncle for just under a year before she was asked to leave. “It’s not all his fault,” she explained. “I got drunk one night and vomited right in front of his bedroom door.” I responded, “Yeah, I’d probably make you go, too.” Israel laughed. “Yeah, I earned that. And, it wasn’t the first time. He was just like, ‘listen, this has got to stop.’ So, I couch hopped for a little bit,” she recalled. Eventually, her mother found a basement apartment a few towns away, with room for Tamora, and insisted her daughter attend high school again. And again, she struggled. But, this time, she discovered theater. “I had a wonderful theater teacher. I was in her creative writing class and she was like, “you’re… a lot. You should think about theater.’ We ended up doing Kiss Me Kate that year. It’s still one of my favorite musicals!” she exclaimed. However, theater wasn’t enough to get her through her second attempt at 12^th grade. “I needed something different,” she said. “So, I signed up for the army. I’d taken the ASVAB. I’d done the physical test. I had everything needed to be shipped off two weeks later to boot camp. But, I couldn’t pass math, so I didn’t have my diploma. I couldn’t go. And that sucked.” 

She never did graduate. Her mother ended up moving, and again, there was no room for Tamora. “I was around 19, which is old enough for you to go figure out life,” she stated. I disagreed. “Not if you didn’t get the support you needed in high school, because people didn’t catch on that you learn differently,” I said. I asked if she felt her family, the system and society gave her the tools she needed to succeed.  She thought for a moment. “There were two people. Ms. Gordon, my guidance counselor at Freeport. She really fought hard for me. And my theater teacher at Glenn Cove high school, she fought hard for me too. But, for the most part, everyone was like, ‘listen…we’re going this way. Are you going to catch up or not?’ And a lot of times, I just didn’t catch up, because I didn’t get it.”

Israel ended up working at a restaurant. “I was the hostess with the most-ess,” she proudly exclaimed. “I take my jobs seriously. I don’t care what I’m doing, I’m going to be the best at it. I want to spread some love. I want to high five people.” She was beaming. “I really enjoyed that job.” 

It was there that she met a woman named Tamar. “We became fast friends,” she said. It wasn’t long before she took residence on the living room couch of Tamar and her wife. During this time, she continued to write poetry and was performing at open mic nights. Her eyes sparkled again, recalling those times. “I liked it. It was the first thing I thought I was good at. But it was hard work performing. I used to shake on stage like you wouldn’t believe, and I used to forget all my lines. I refused to go on stage with paper, so I would just forget whole poems, which was dumb,” she said. I shook my head as she described her fear. Tamora Israel is one of the most confident speakers I’ve ever seen. My mentor. She talked about getting over her jitters. “The crowd was always great. Everyone thinks New Yorkers are assholes, and we can be, but the crowd was just so nice, saying ‘it’s alright, take your time, you got it.’ Everyone was really supportive. And sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t.” 

Eventually, the universe guided Israel to Cape Cod, as she joined Tamar on a visit to see her sister. “I’d never heard of Cape Cod,” she admitted. Upon arrival, life took an unexpected turn for Israel and Tamar’s sister. “We just had a connection. You know, those moments where you’re just like, ‘well this makes sense. We should do this.’ We spent the whole weekend together. I got to know her kids.” On the ride back to New York, she realized she’d fallen in love. “On the way home, I wrote about her in my journal. I was just like ‘well, I’m in love. So, I’m gonna go live my life’… after the first weekend. I was the epitome of a lesbian,” she laughed, whole-heartedly. “We moved in with each other three months after we met and we got married six months after we met.” She offered some hind-sight advice. “Don’t. Fucking. Do. That.” Our laughter was intense. This woman simply tells life like it is. Epitome of authenticity.

I asked her what the children thought of their whirlwind romance. “They thought, ‘hey, this seems fast.’ And they were right. It was,” she said. “But eventually, they took to me. They taught me how to swim. They taught me how to parent. I honestly had no idea. I didn’t know what to do with children. My oldest, Kiana, was so instrumental in helping me understand how children work; to be kind and slow. I was very abrasive. Not in a mean way, but whatever I thought, I just kind of said. It didn’t always turn out well. So, my oldest would say, ‘It hurts my feelings when you say it like that.’ And I felt so sorry, because I honestly had no idea. They taught me how to treat people with kindness and slowness, to understand people who weren’t like me. They’re so cool.”  I smiled and replied, “That sounds like a gift.” She concurred. “Absolutely. And she’s still like that. She is an amazing person, and a wonderful mother. She’s 27 now, and has two boys, so I’m a proud grandma.”

She described learning about patience through her middle child, Alyssa. “Just because you want somebody to do something, doesn’t mean that they will. Just because I want it, doesn’t mean I can have it. She taught me patience. And, a different kind of love. You know, love feels different when you have to…earn it. I had to earn her love. But now, it’s there. It’s not going anywhere,” she said, with the confidence only a mother can have. “I love her and she loves me.” 

She continued, describing the lessons learned from her youngest child. “My youngest taught me that there are different kinds of ‘different.’ It was hard for me to see other people’s ‘different’, even though I was different. She taught me how to see people past what I’m looking at. She taught me how important words are. A few years ago, we were talking about my nephew. He plays football. Not a jock, because you know, labels aren’t great, but he’s very athletic. I said, “He’s like a ‘boy’ boy. And my youngest was like, ‘what does that mean? Am I not a ‘boy’ boy?’ And I realized, she had a point. I just didn’t see it that way. I was automatically putting the two of them in different boxes, just by my choice of words. I didn’t point at them and say ‘you belong in that box’, but the way I worded it, put them there. Hazel came out this year as transgender, and she really helped me understand how important it is to see past what I see.”

I commented on the fact that Israel never brought up her sexuality as something that contributed to her perceived “weirdness” as a child. She nodded. “If I came out in the 80’s, that would not be a thing. I was so lucky. I came out around the age of 15, and I was scared. I thought ‘Oh God, they’re going to kick me out,’ and my mom said, ‘I don’t care if you’re gay, straight, purple, orange or green. You’re my daughter and I love you and I’m always going to love you.’ And my dad said, ‘Ah, it’s a phase.’ And I was like, ‘ok, it’s a long fucking phase, but alright.’” We both tossed our heads back in laughter, again. This conversation was just so comfortable. She was so comfortable.

On Cape Cod, Israel found her tribe. “Like I said, I was a loner. I didn’t really hang out with people and all of a sudden, I had these people who were like, ‘come into this circle. Tell us about yourself.’ They accepted me into this family of friends,” she said. “That changed my life for the better, for sure. I’m still friends with almost all of them.” Eventually, one of her friends, Jayce, suggested she obtain her GED, which Israel quickly shrugged off. After multiple suggestions, she finally gave in and attended the Adult Collaborative of Cape Cod for Education and Support Services (ACCCESS). “That’s where I found out that I wasn’t stupid. I found out that I’m not dumb. I just learn differently. The people in ACCCESS took the time to test me and say, ‘OK here’s where you’re lacking, so let’s work on that.’ I went through the process of learning how to learn again. And it was awesome!” she said. She was glowing. “I’m not dumb. I’m a smart person. I just learn differently.” Still, her faulty inner narrative existed.  “I took my GED and thought, ‘I’m not going to pass. I’ve been doing OK in class, but let’s not fool ourselves. I’m still me.’ I still thought I was stupid.” My heart was aching as she continued, “I took the test and I passed with flying colors. I passed MATH!  I was so happy. I have my GED diploma. I don’t care if people don’t think it’s a high school diploma. I worked so hard and learned so much about myself. These people were so kind, and took so much time for me. It was individualized learning like I’d never seen before. I’m from New York; there’s no individual learning. Well, I’m sure there is, but no one showed that to me until I got here.” 

Her instructors at ACCCESS encouraged her to apply to college. “Never in my mind did I think I could go to college, because I’m not smart enough. College is for smart people. It blew my mind. So, I went to college,” she said, with the biggest grin yet. “And Cape Cod Community College opened up a whole different world for me. I had no idea that I could learn psychology, and sociology, and creative writing and speech writing and science and anatomy! And I took apart a cow eye and it was amazing!” she laughed. It wasn’t long before Israel discovered the theater program. “I had done open mic nights and a little theater, but I’d never prepared for a piece. I just memorized things,” she said. She spoke about learning breathing and stretching exercises. “And we were taught how to memorize monologues and it’s there that I realized, ‘Oh my God. This, right here, is where I belong. This makes sense.’” 

It wasn’t only the classes that caused Israel to fall in love with college. “I met friends; people who were weird like me. They were cool with my weirdness. They encouraged me to do whatever I wanted to do. It was so…weird. Wonderfully weird. The more time I spent there, the more I started to open up.” She talked about freely handing out compliments and hugs and “being myself in a space where it’s not only accepted, but encouraged. It was mind-blowing.” Being in her element gave her the confidence to create the Unity Club, which was a space where people of color and their allies could unite and bring their different cultures to the campus. She also joined the Rotaract club and became involved in student government. Soon, she found herself on the honor roll and was invited to join Phi Theta Kappa. “I was so incredibly proud,” she said. “I was working full time, going to school full time and I had a family. It was a lot, but I didn’t care. All these things were things that I wanted to do. For the first time, I didn’t have to do it in order to eat. I didn’t have to do it in order to not have those feelings. I was doing it because it felt good. I couldn’t wait to do it. Being a mother was awesome. I wanted to do that. Going to school was awesome. I wanted to do that. Working at a jewelry store and playing with fire… I wanted to do that. It was this trifecta of, ‘you made it.’ It was an amazing couple of years.” 

While Tamora seemed on top of the world, there was still pain. Her best friend, now her sister-in-law, committed suicide while in Israel in 2010. Her marriage fell apart. She stopped taking classes. Tamar’s death affected her greatly. “It’s where my last name comes from,” she said. “It’s a tribute to her, to remember her, and a reminder that the farther I get away from people who love me, the more dangerous life becomes. It’s a constant reminder. My name is Israel and I’m alive, but I could not be.”  

After her divorce, she remained an active parent in her children’s lives. “I love being a parent,” she beamed. “I like cooking dinner for a large family. I miss that now. I miss it a lot.” Her second marriage ended last year. “After that divorce, I threw myself into everything I could possibly think of. Work, advocacy, poetry, business…everything except concentrating on that pain. And that’s what I’ve been doing, up until the pandemic. We all had to stop. I was forced to sit at home and think about all these feelings. I was so depressed, I was gonna kill myself. I’d had it. That hole, that despair part, was still there. I was just making myself too busy to notice it. But now, you can’t run from it anymore, and I finally thought I should do something to help myself. Which is where ‘Coffee with T’ came from (Her Facebook video series focusing on art and poetry). I started going to therapy to try and unpack some of this shit.”

I stared at her, realizing the invisibility of depression. In the course of one year, this woman wrote and performed in plays and staged readings, became a spokesperson for Cape Cod Community College, won poetry slams, participated in the Cape Leadership Institute, filmed a poetry series, became a member of the Barnstable Sunrise Rotary Club, was featured in the Writer’s Voice Café, modeled for Waxing Half Moon, was chosen as the only poet to participate in this year’s Cape Cod Women’s Music Festival, wrote the ending credit song for the short film, “Get Up Eight”, as well as performed a small role in the movie, gave a Tedx Talk, started a small business with two other partners and began working at Cape Media News. How could I spend almost every other week with her at open mic and not realize she was depressed? Was she really suicidal?  “Oh, for sure,” she confirmed. “I wanted…not wanted, but I had visions of hanging myself, like the way my sister did. I didn’t want to deal with it. I didn’t want to deal with these feelings. Unpacking shit is so hard. It’s just much easier to not. Thank God for my friend, Gabby. She was like ‘Hey, so you seem sadder than usual. Are you ok?’ And I did the thing that you always do. I said, ‘I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong.’ And she just wouldn’t stop. She said she knew I wasn’t OK and that I should go to therapy if I didn’t want to talk to her. And I was like, ‘Yeah, I’ll get around to it.’ And she just wouldn’t go away. She’s amazing. Absolutely amazing. So, I started going to therapy and I didn’t kill myself. So that’s good,” she said, with a relaxed smile. Yes, that is very good, Tamora. She continued. “I’m still in therapy, and we’re slowly unpacking things. The pandemic really made me see different parts of myself that I had tucked away.” We discussed the obvious silver lining in this story. “I would have never done the work if it wasn’t for the pandemic,” she said. The unpacking is working. Her visions are starting to go away. She’s starting to exercise more and drink a lot less. “I realized I was just masking,” she observed. “It was a part of growth but also masking. A dual role.”

Our conversation came full circle, as we reminisced about her Tedx Talk. “That was a wonderful, integral part of growing as an artist. I knew that I wanted to write about something that had to deal with poetry… and kindness. Because, I’d found so much kindness here on the Cape.  Don’t get me wrong, there are assholes here. But, I feel like there’s more kind people than assholes. And it’s like that in the world. I think most people are kind.”

This mindset flows through her activism with the Black Lives Matter movement. She spoke at several events and organized a march of her own. “I deal with racism all the time,” she said. “After a while, you get used to it. You shouldn’t have to. I’d gotten used to the stares. People stare at me all the time, which drives me nuts. Eventually, you realize ‘I don’t like this.’  And after Ahmaud Arbery, I said, ‘They killed this man in the street. We watched them do it, and none of them are arrested? Wait, what if I’m Ahmaud Arbery? What if the country doesn’t rally behind me? Does my family get justice? And how many more Ahmaud Arbery’s are there? This has to be enough. And then, George Floyd happened. We watched this man cry for his mother and die in the street. I’d had enough. I’m tired of not calling things out because I don’t want to make somebody else feel uncomfortable with their racism. And now that we have the country’s attention, now that everyone is at home… everyone’s listening. So, what are you gonna do about it? People are marching, but what’s tomorrow? Because, when you go home, I’m still black; I’m still dealing with this shit. So, come into the fold with us. Here’s how we think you can help. Let’s start making change.” She discussed how this movement identifies the disparities in our country, and how those who have been contributing to this problem can fix it, and unite. “I’m not saying you can’t come back. I think ‘cancel culture’ is subjective. I think second acts are awesome. People can change. I’ve seen my own friends change their ways. I know it can happen. You just have to try. But, don’t just try and then give up. That’s not acceptable.” We talked about the polarization in our society, which she feels can be overcome. “I do believe that the only way forward is together,” she said. “The country is listening and talking about racism in a way I’ve never seen. Now is the time to say exactly what we want and exactly what we need, as a people. We all can do this, together.” 

I thought about her children teaching her patience and how she learns differently than other people. I asked, “Do you feel you need to be patient with society?” She paused for a moment and responded, “I think to an extent, because racism has been so ingrained; our country was founded on it. As we start to change, we all learn at different paces. I know I definitely do. But, you don’t stop trying. And you’re going to fall. You’re going to mess up. You’re going to say something stupid. You’re going to offend somebody and hurt feelings. And when you do, apologize. Changing minds, some of it’s going to be quick,” she said. She compared it to her learning style. “Poetry: super easy for me to get. Math: don’t get it at all. We’re all going to try different things at different times and different paces, but we’ve just got to keep trying. I’m not going to stop trying to pass math, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to fail it at least two more times,” she laughed. “But, I want it badly enough to not quit. Maybe people who are hesitant to change are afraid of failure.”

Israel’s mission is simple. “I want to spread love. I want everyone to feel loved. I know what it feels like to feel like you don’t belong, or that people don’t care. I want people to know if they’re feeling shitty, I get it. Give me a high five. Let me give you a hug. Or, let me tell you how beautiful your eyes are. Let me tell you how cool your pants are. I want to lift people up, because it sucks to be down there. And when you’re down there, you don’t always admit that you’re down there. People are walking all over you and you say, ‘Yup, everything’s fine, this doesn’t hurt at all.’ We are conditioned to be OK, even if we’re not.”

I smiled. She was picked on in school for all the magical things she just described. I shared my thoughts, adding, “People dig that now. You were just ahead of your time.” Bearing her beautiful smile, she replied, “I hope so.” We talked about the concept of being “wonderfully weird.” “Sometimes, you have to go through all that stuff in order to get to that higher spot in your life,” she said. 

Welcome to the high spot, Tamora.

Israel’s season on Cape Cod has, and she has relocated to Atlanta to be with family and pursue her goal of working in media. “And I will pass math and earn my degree. It’s already mine,” she said, confidently. “I just haven’t gotten it yet.”

Get ready Atlanta, your world is about to change…

**Update, April, 2021: Tamora can be found streaming live on Facebook Friday nights at 7 with “Uncorked with T” and Tuesday mornings at 7am with “Coffee with Ts.”