Conway Reflections – July 2–6, 2025 A field journal for 9th & Gasoline
Day One - Old Dirt yet Fresh Soil
I want to process my trip to Conway, South Carolina — a place tender with memory, heat, and haunted hope. I left Philadelphia on July 2nd and returned on the 6th, 2025. The purpose was clear: gather music video footage for 9th & Gasoline — the upcoming visual album by B. Alexis, who is poised to become the FIRST woman incarcerated in an American prison to release a full-length album on October 3rd, 2025.
We traveled to her hometown because it matters — the soil, the streets, the closed down stores, the people who remember her even when the state pretends she no longer exists. We wanted TRUTH, not polish. So we went where she laughed, loved, struggled, and dreamed.
I arrived late that first night. Teddy — my co-director, videographer, and brother in the vision — picked me up from the airport. He already knew the town by heart, thanks to Tamika, B. Alexis’ childhood babysitter, who’d toured him through Conway like a local griot. It also didn’t hurt that the town’s incredibly small. She introduced him to neighbors, laid the groundwork for our shoot, made sure people knew we were there for B — not as outsiders, but as kin.
The next morning, we began at Quasia’s house — godmother to Ja’Mir, B. Alexis’ late son. Last year, Ja’Mir was tragically gunned down one morning at a school bus stop — he was 18 years old.. Quasia’s house is a living altar to him: a mural-sized banner, his sneakers still lined gently against the wall, as if he’ll walk in any moment to switch kicks; memorial candles etched with his smile, framed memories suspended in time. I was struck by how completely she holds space for him. Her bookshelf whispered backstories too — hood classics like Every Thug Needs a Lady and King of the Streets, the kind of paperbacks that move through county cells like sacred scripture. She had The Quickie by James Patterson — one of my favorites — and we shared a moment over that, a small bond in a heavy space. Her demeanor was guarded, maybe a little sharp — I could tell she was going through her own personal shit, exhausted, but doing all of this because she deeply loves B. And underneath it all, she’s generous, funny, and full of heart. She opened her home to us without question.
At Quasia’s house I met Kimbrell — B. Alexis’ nine-year-old niece, her brother Dominic’s daughter, who would be portraying a young version of her incarcerated aunt for our project. Kimbrell was a quiet force: attentive, focused, and somehow ancient in her stillness. She handed me her phone at the start of filming, never asked for it back. She was a natural. We captured her climbing trees, putting on earrings in the mirror, playing with Barbies, slipping shoe charms into her crocs, running from a bully — until she stops, breathless, and looks up at the 9th & Gasoline street sign. A symbolic moment. A portal. A foreboding snapshot of a hometown landmark that will one day be stripped away due to incarceration.
Later, I met Cova — Tamika’s 16 year old daughter. Though she’s never met her “aunt” in person, when I played her B’s music, tears welled up in her eyes. Tamika was pregnant with Cova when B. Alexis went away, but B works hard to stay connected to a family that grew up without her in the room — writing letters, making phone calls, sending money and gifts, staying present in absence. As a person who’s done time myself… that is DIFFICULT to do.
Tamika and Cova were both visibly shaken by the music. Tamika especially — an emotional powerhouse — said the songs touched her soul. She speaks in bold strokes, each word felt DEEP in your chest. She’s a living archive of Conway, a village caretaker — the woman who babysat everyone. “If you under 40,” she says proudly, “I done wiped your ass.”
Unplanned, Cova stepped into the role of Kimbrell’s on-screen bully with creativity and heart, but more than acting, both girls brought real ideas to the table. They helped shape shots, gave feedback, and stayed curious about the process. Their insight was invaluable. They weren’t just subjects; they were co-creators. They will receive production credit, as they should.
From there, we went to Cherry Hill Projects to film at Ashley’s house — B’s sister on her father’s side. Ashley has a tight-knit crew: her partner Simone, her best friend Kay, and their children, including a two-month-old baby named Chosen. The Projects was warm, buzzing with community and kids. When we played B’s music for them, everyone was FLOORED. But Kay — holding Chosen — was visibly overwhelmed. She told me she needed this album last year, when her world was collapsing and she was contemplating suicide. The song about mental health struck her deepest. Cradling her baby tight, she looked down with loving eyes, “I just pray my daughter don’t ever have to go through what I went through.” Her words hung and rang through the air like a hymnal.
Black Barbie - B. Alexis’ first single.
Ashley was deeply moved too. She was hurt — realizing how little she knew about what B had been going through. Even though B. Alexis is just two months older, she always wore the armor of the “big sister.” She carried the pain in silence to protect Ashley from it. But in one eerie moment — Ashley, 17 years ago — walked a cross town the day before B’s crime, feeling something was wrong. She said, “I don’t know why, but I had to come check on you.” B brushed it off back then, but now sees it differently. She told me, “If I was who I am today, I’d have known that was God.”
Ashley and her circle pulled us in. B’s younger sister even resembles her, so we imagined a sequence where the love interest, PC, sees B. Alexis in a fever dream — years later, out in the free world. They reunite. He still carries her earring from years ago, and now he places it gently in her ear. They walk, they touch, they dance. And just when we believe it’s real, we realize: it’s only a dream. A fragment of longing.
When I pitched this scene to B, she grew frustrated. She felt I was distorting her truth — romanticizing her pain. She said it wasn’t realistic, that love doesn’t wait for incarcerated Black women. That we don’t get those kinds of endings. And while I saw room for magic in my idea, I respected her feelings. I let it be for the time being. Some things we just hold.
Before we left, we visited Mrs. Marilyn — B’s grandmother. She didn’t want to be filmed, but we recorded her voice, saying beautiful, powerful things to her granddaughter. She spoke like Maya Angelou — calm, wise, unwavering. Her words were supposed to become interludes in the film. She felt like the root. The beginning of B’s fire. You can hear her spirit echoed in B. Alexis’ voice and values. It was healing to sit with her. To feel where this story starts. So after some time capturing this sonically, I made a plan to return to Mrs. Marilyn’s before my short trip ended — this time not to work, but to be in her presence. To sit with her spirit.
And that... was just Day One.
Day Two — Where the Seed Takes Root
I woke with something on my heart — a need to speak with B. Our visions had briefly clashed the day before, and I wanted to express that though I understood her concern about the romantic arc in the film — that it didn’t feel realistic for a woman who’s served 17 years — I also couldn’t ignore what was happening in real time.
Years before at a recording session in prison, I had played her album for PC, a FREER artist from the same state, and he was immediately drawn in. He said, “I have to know her.” I connected them. They’ve been inseparable since.
PC was released in 2023. Since then, he’s stood by B with a devotion that humbled me — handling her affairs, protecting her peace. And he’s not the only one. Another man has been in her corner all these years. While those relationships may not be romantic in a traditional sense, they’re deeply intimate, deeply real.
Sometimes, Brit and I see the world differently. She’s black-and-white. I live in color. She speaks in facts. I dream in symbols. When she said that kind of love wasn’t realistic, it didn’t sit right with me — because her whole life has defied realism.
9th & Gasoline shouldn’t exist. Some people would say being the first woman to release an album from an American prison is unrealistic, but here she is. Also, why did the film have to be limited to nonfiction? Can we dream? Can we feel love? Romance? Why not show a side rarely seen? Why not explore the countless fantasies we daydream behind the wall through art?
Over the prison phone line, I told her how I felt — tender but firm. That I needed a little creative freedom and her continued trust to do this story justice. She listened. She heard me. We agreed to keep the romantic scene, just with a few small changes.
And with that — a tiny crack in the dirt, more seeds began to bloom.
We kept dreaming together. She shared a new idea, that her grandmother should narrate the film. I couldn’t have agreed more. When I’d asked her what Black love looked like, she said, “My grandmom and granddaddy.” So since I already had plans to go visit Mrs. Marilyn again anyway — I felt good about continuing to gather the stories that only she could tell.
That day I also met Tan — B’s little cousin — cast as a teenage B. Alexis. She showed up willing but distant. The shots we got were okay, but her energy wasn’t all the way in. She had places to be, so we worked with what we had.
Meanwhile, across town, Quasia threw a Fourth of July cookout. It turned into a precious gathering — a celebration of B's survival, of Black southern family. I met B’s father Mr. Vaughn —, a neighbor by the name of Chubb, and a two-year-old named Dream who lit up every frame she touched. I met old friends, neighbors, and kids. We filmed for a track called “Black Man” — a song that uplifts the Black family, and honors how we see each other; how we hold each other and rise together.
Back and forth between the barbecue and shooting Tan’s scenes, we captured her character evolving. She was growing up fast, in love with a street nigga. We filmed her counting money, catching him cheating, taking drugs from him and selling them to an addict. B’s sister on her mom’s side, Shavonna, played the “other woman.” We also shot her holding up a photo of B. Alexis with a silent reverence. Others held photos of Ja’Mir. Though stills, those photos were moving in the most powerful ways.
One of the most dynamic moments that day: Ashley and Mr. Vaughn, father and daughter, touching each other’s faces, tracing where their features mirrored. He tried to laugh through the awkwardness, but I told him — “Look at her eyes. They’re yours.” Later, they both told me: that intimate scene would live with them FOREVER. They haven’t been affectionate since she was a baby.
July 4, 2025, in Conway was drenched in the complexity of Black Southern life. There were politics underfoot. Red tape and old tension. People who wanted to be involved but couldn’t due to prior acts of inflicted violence on other subjects. However, love conquered it all in the end.
That night, we filmed Tan getting arrested. We captured Conway’s landmarks — B’s house that burned down when she was a child, the one where she began turning tricks at 13 years old. We were digging deeper now. The sugar had melted. It was time for the truth.
There was only one person — aside from Mrs. Marilyn — who could give it to me: Tamika.
And all of that… was only Day Two.
Day Three — The Story Listens Back
We returned to Mrs. Marilyn’s house the next day. I had planned to simply sit with her, to spend time — not film originally, but the growth was out of my control. I explained the creative differences B and I had had, and how she now wanted more of her story included — pictures of her and her late husband, maybe some narration in her own voice. But Mrs. Marilyn was firm. She said, “I wish the best for my granddaughter. I hope she’s as big as Beyoncé. But I don’t want anything to do with it. I don’t like attention in this way. Y’all are too far in my business.” I could feel she was surprised and disappointed to see me still in work mode.
I told her I understood. And I meant it. But I also wanted her to know: I didn’t believe B was doing this for stardom. She was doing it to mark her roots, to make sure no one forgot the people who made her, the values she was born from. I told Mrs. Marilyn, "She’s not trying to be Beyoncé. She’s trying to make sure the world knows y’all were here."
Mrs. Marilyn listened. Then she opened her door. We sat and we talked for hours. About Black accountability, raising boys. About Ja’Mir’s brilliance — the full college scholarship he obtained in sixth grade. “That boy was so intellectual, I truly believe he could’ve not only had a conversation with Obama; I believe he could’ve taught him something,” she said beaming with pride. We talked about the grief she carried after her husband died, and how she lost her will ever since. How every night she prays the good Lord takes her home to be with the love of her life. We talked about B’s mother’s mental illness and the consequences of it not being treated. We discussed her view of America as the land of opportunity, good old fashioned hard work, discipline, and her pride in owning her home.
Somewhere in that ocean of conversation, tears began falling down my cheeks. I had just come from Ja’Mir’s memorial. I saw it in person for the first time. B had called while I was there. She choked up. Could barely speak. The grief was still raw for her. It was raw for all of us.
Maybe that’s what cracked the door — because suddenly, Mrs. Marilyn looked at Ted and said, “Teddy, you can record.”
I Can’t Lie - B. Alexis. A song dedicated to her son, Ja’Mir.
She had changed her mind. She let us record audio as we spoke. By the end, she said, “You can film a picture of me and my husband. You can film my hands holding the letters B sent me. Because even from prison, she’s always helping this family move forward. I want to help her with that.”
It was transformative. It was poetry happening in real time. The matriarch who began with resistance ended with blessing. We left with gold. Not because of the film, but because we were truly witnessing old family wounds heal through art. It’s indescribable when you’re in the midst.
Later that day, we spoke to B’s brother, Michael. He told us about their childhood, about the writing contest she won that sent the whole family to Disney World. Everyone thought she’d grow up to be a lawyer. She was brilliant. So was Ja’Mir.
We spoke to her father again. He was more vulnerable this time. He admitted: “Poverty was the downfall of B. Alexis and her child. If they hadn’t grown up poor, the world might’ve belonged to them.” He blames himself for B’s incarceration.
We circled back to Tamika. She didn’t want to be filmed. She was unsure how she looked, how she came across. But I told her she was stunning. Depthful. Beautiful. I told her a story — of a staff member at a youth placement who once asked me, “Why you always walking with your head down?” I was a teenage girl struggling to adjust to growing a natural beard. That moment changed my life.
I told Tamika, “The day I saw myself as the smart, funny, talented, sexy person I am — was the same day the world did too.”
Tamika heard that. She let us film. She took me to places where B became a woman. Told me the story of the crime. Told me about the lack of love that led her there. We talked about generational curses, sexual abuse, church, SURVIVAL. She told me how she used to stay up all night when she knew there was a hit out on Jamir — stayed up like a guard dog to make sure he could sleep. The perpetrators could never run in her house and kill him. Can you guess why? “‘Cause I wiped their asses too.” She said it with defiance and sorrow.
The heartbreak was relentless. But it was necessary. Reconciling with the fact that the people who killed Jamir not only grew up with him but once loved him and still walk among us due to hood politics, street rules that even civilians need to follow for fear of retribution.
Tamika at Ja’Mir’s memorial, speaking about his passing.
I left Conway not with the story I thought I came for — but with the one that revealed itself.
Beya, a director I work with, recently shared a quote with me from the documentarian Frederick Wiseman: “If you end up with the story you originally started with, you weren’t listening along the way.”
We listened. The story listened back.
Now, 9th & Gasoline is no longer just a visual album. It is a documentary. It is a living, breathing testimony.
We have until October 3rd to finish it — and the clock is ticking.
But this story, this woman, this moment? They deserve everything.
We will not let her down. We will rise to meet it. We will get it done.
Help Us Bring 9th & Gasoline Home — A Story That Must Be Told
This is more than a film.
It’s a soul laid bare—
a story of love, loss, resilience, and truth from the heart of Conway, South Carolina.
9th & Gasoline is the voice of a woman whose journey breaks barriers —
B. Alexis, poised to be the FIRST incarcerated woman in America
to release a full-length album while still behind bars.
Through our lens, you meet her family, her roots, her community —
the faces and places that shaped her,
the pain that tried to silence her,
and the hope that will not be denied.
This project is a lifeline to history in the making.
It’s a testament to Black southern life,
to the power of storytelling,
and to the urgent need for compassion and CHANGE.
But we need your help.
The clock is ticking toward our October 3rd premiere,
and every dollar brings us closer to completing this vital work.
By supporting this film, you are standing with B. Alexis,
with Miss Marilyn, Tamika, Quasia, and everyone who entrusted us with their stories.
You are making sure their voices are heard —
not just whispered in the shadows,
but shouted into the light.
Will you join us?
Give what you can.
Be part of history.
Help us finish 9th & Gasoline and share a story that deserves to be known.
Because some stories refuse to be forgotten.
And this is one of them.