Marqus Dromgoole
Community advocate Shawn Marqus Dromgoole II passed away suddenly on Thursday, Feb. 19, 2026. While he was known by both Shawn and Marqus during his life, in recent months he had returned to just Marqus.
“Uh-oh. What did you say about me?”
Marqus Dromgoole’s voice was kind of sing-songy. He let his body rest against the wooden railing as he slightly raised one of his perfect dark eyebrows. He seemed amused — he struck me as the kind of person who was used to being misunderstood and was now waiting for the latest in a long line of such instances.
I looked away for a minute, and exhaled into the late-summer night. Around us, voices and music blared on the balcony of Rosemary & Beauty Queen. In the 10 minutes we had known each other, I’d already confessed to poorly analyzing his story on a podcast the year before. Following the murder of George Floyd, Marqus had posted in the Nextdoor app that he was afraid to stroll in his own Nashville neighborhood as a Black man, which led to his creation of a thousand-person walk. It made national headlines. I later talked about the story, trying to get into the psyche of someone I did not know.
That was how our friendship began. With my confession and his grace — followed by six years of neither of us returning to listen to the podcast. It just became a part of our story. Something that we would tell people at parties.
Those first walks became a nonprofit, More Than a Walk, which took Marqus across the continent. Connecting people through history, fitness and the arts became his ministry. He appeared on The Kelly Clarkson Show and behind pulpits — pulpits that some people in his community did not think he was qualified to speak from. To me, though, he seemed to appear at The Mall at Green Hills every time I was there. Under the gauzy light of the mall’s skylights, we strolled and talked about our devotion to clothing.
We were both collectors. Not only of garments, but of usable art. I had a prized typewriter collection then, but it was nothing like Marqus’ earthenware. He first told me about his complete collection of early Franciscan tableware while we were taking a car ride one afternoon. He seemed proudest of the pieces painted with apples, not simply for their worth, but because they had been denied to him by disapproving family members when he was a child. Boys were not supposed to want china. But he persisted in finding the treasures elsewhere, with the encouragement of his mother and grandmother. He collected enough earthenware to throw a banquet for everyone he loved. I love that word for him: earthenware. Maybe it’s a morbid reflection, but I think that’s what Marqus now is. An earthen vessel. A part of our sacred coming-together.
And our first coming-together was because I did not truly understand Marqus. What was ironic about my critique on that podcast was that Marqus’ neighborhood was also mine. I could have walked to his house in a few minutes. Except I too was afraid to walk in our neighborhood. He had expressed something so vulnerable, and people came to his aid. Maybe my aversion to his statement was because I just wanted the nighttime streets to feel like they were mine — I didn’t ever want to have to admit that I could not do it alone. A popular life coach I follow would call what I was doing “spiritual bypassing.” It takes courage to say “I’m scared.”
The thing I realize only now, while writing this piece, is that I am a direct beneficiary of We Walk With Shawn, the community walks organized by More Than a Walk. Sometimes breakthroughs are made by imperceptible degrees. I am not sure when the feeling of fear went away. Whether I was racing down Belmont, on the edge of a runner’s high, my mouth sucking in air, amber sun on my face. Or whether I was looking into the shiny storefronts on 12South. But I walked in my own neighborhood. And now, even as the big new houses lean over the boulevard, their shadows cannot erase our footsteps.
I’m glad that neither Marqus nor I ever listened back to that podcast episode. I finally listened a few days ago and realized it was not nearly as critical as I’d remembered. But thinking I had been critical led to friendship, and led to us realizing that we had so much in common. Maybe being tough on yourself has its unlikely benefits.
I think, finally, of an old church song that seems to be both prayer and promise.
I’m gonna walk those streets of glory, by and by.
I sure hope so. I sure hope so.
