"We Had Instructions": Remembering Michael Dinwiddie (1954–2025)

In the hours following the news of Michael Dinwiddie’s passing on July 4, 2025, my phone pinged with calls and texts. Like the tears welling in my eyes as I replayed the news of his passing, social media flooded with stories, snapshots, and reverberations of his legacy. Collectively, the tributes formed a vivid tapestry of love, laughter, and vision. Michael was beloved by many, and his life was full and generative.

One phrase from a phone call stayed with me. It keeps echoing in my mind: "We had instructions." I do not know if those instructions came directly from Michael. However, it would not surprise me if they did. Michael was a planner, a visionary, a seed-sower. He moved with an understanding of time that was not bound to the present moment, preparing and reminding us of the work still to be done.

That phrase—we had instructions—also made me think deeply about the busyness of death. About how grief gets delayed, interrupted, even displaced by the logistics of honoring someone who gave so much. There is a weight that falls on the living to carry what remains. And in Michael’s case, he left behind an extraordinary blueprint—not just of accomplishments, but of relationships, of cultural memory, and of institutions he envisioned long before they fully took form.

As the Editor-in-Chief of The Black Theatre Review, I felt the tug—the weight of my responsibility to respond publicly, professionally, institutionally. But there was another voice, quieter, but no less urgent: the one inside me, asking me to pause. To sit still in the waves of loss. To acknowledge the grief and allow it to pass through me—without structuring it, without naming it, and without rushing to interpret it. That voice pushed against the expectations that so often accompany death’s rituals, reminding me that grief is sacred work too.

Because grief, when we allow it, brings us closer to what mattered most. It honors the depth of our connection. It insists that we not only remember the person but also feel the magnitude of their absence. In a world that too often urges us to move on quickly, grief teaches us to sit still with what is eternal.

And what feels eternal about Michael is easy to name: the way his voice, laughter, song, and tickling of the ivory would fill—and transform—a room. The way he would always ask after my family by name, making the most professional engagements feel warm and personal. The way he attuned himself to the needs of the moment—whether logistical, emotional, or spiritual. These are not simply memories; they are imprints. And they live on in all of us who were shaped by his presence.

Among Michael’s many legacies, his leadership, his advocacy, his fundraising, his teaching, his artistry, and mentorship, there is another story to tell: the Black Theatre Review was Michael’s baby.

Michael, in his generous and affirming way, entrusted me and former Managing Editor Dr. Corey Roberts with the editorial direction of tBTR at the recommendation of our colleague and friend, Dr. Lundeana Thomas. It was a responsibility we did not take lightly. In our earliest conversations, Michael emphasized his desire to build upon the work seeded through Continuum: The Journal of African Diasporic Drama, Theatre and Performance—a groundbreaking publication that he helped cultivate and sustain with love and rigor.

But tBTR was something new. And, true to form, Michael wanted us to dream expansively. "Whatever you need to make it work," he said.

In sourcing funding, staffing, and advisory board members, Michael was always there pushing us forward while letting us lead. He encouraged me to pursue a course release not just for editorial duties, but for the work of Black institution building. Because he knew it was work—intellectual, emotional, and spiritual labor—that required not only commitment, but institutional recognition. He understood that faculty engaged in editorial leadership are doing critical, often invisible, work that builds scholarly infrastructure and advances the field. And we needed time and space to do it.

And that is what Michael did. He did not just mentor—he made space. He did not just believe in students and colleagues; he sowed into them.

As I scrolled through the many tributes, it was evident that he touched a wide range of people and institutions. That is who Michael was a connector, a cultural strategist, a dramatist of the Black experience. A man who walked with joy and brought it into rehearsal rooms, classrooms, board meetings, and editorial meetings.

I miss him.

And yet I also feel him—nudging, reminding, instructing me to be more present in life and to document that presence. I saw Michael many times. I ate dinner at his home. I hugged him at conferences and, most recently, just before giving the keynote at the August Wilson Biennial Colloquium. But I do not have a single photo with him. Not one. What I have instead is the memory of his embrace, his encouragement, and his infectious joy.

So, with his music in our ears, his laughter in our memory, his lessons etched into our lives, and his spirit walking beside us, the living will press forward, as what was eternal in Michael is still with us now.

With deep gratitude for all that Michael gave to the world, to me, and to tBTR,

Omiyẹmi (Artisia) Green
Editor-in-Chief, the Black Theatre Review