Think Cultural appropriation’s bad? Try Cultural misappropriation and see how the hell you feel! How “Come by ya” became “Kumbaya,” and other white fuckery

This, is a serious nit I need to pick, more with my Black Fam than white folk (since stealing and distorting our culture often, and even with our help, is the norm — especially these days). But you guys? You non-boulé folk who’ve not been compromised? SOME of you should know, or at least learn better. And the rest of y’all boulé folk — cut this shit out!

“Come By Ya” (in the Gullah patois of my birth) is in NO WAY a feel-good, folk “camp song” born of some African language (well it wasn’t until white folk chose to steal and rework it that way, that is) — nor is it this JOKE of a touchy-feely, white misappropriation they like to throw around, based on their own white fuckery.

“Come By Ya” was a F*CKIN’ LAMENT of the enslaved Black folk of the Georgia and South Carolina Sea Islands. It was a pained entreaty, a cry for help — TO.WHITE.JESUS (with whom they’d been deeply indoctrinated) — for spiritual, physical and emotional rescue, from the HORRORS inflicted upon them by those same Bible-thumpin’, so-called Christian, white folk, who’d brought them to Him in the first place!

I’m here to tell you Fam — indoctrination soaked in naked terror really works!

 I was born and raised in Charleston, SC 66 seasons ago. My family are Gullah people born & raised on Edisto Island, a Sea Island not far from the city proper. My maternal grandmother and grandfather were born in 1908 and 1913 respectively. And from her Black Methodist church, to his Black Baptist church, I learned this old, Negro spiritual at both their knees, led by the oldest member of the congregation — my entire, damned life!

The last time I heard and sang it, was at my younger, first cousin, Rhonda’s funeral in January 2018. Held at my grandfather’s church on the Island (at which Mother Emanuel’s new pastor, Rev. Eric C.S. Manning spoke), it was appropriately, the Benediction selection because at that moment, we were all “singin’, cryin’ and needin’ rescue and relief from the pain her death wrought. I remember thinking to myself, “These damed folk, with no damned knowledge of how we, the descendants of formerly enslaved people lived and believed, had bastardized something that for us, meant a soothing — a Balm in Gilead.”

I’ve long since stopped believing in white Jesus but, I’ll NEVER stop loving those spirituals that, over my lifetime, have always made me feel whole and connected to my people.

As usual though, white folk keep trying to take credit for “discovering it” (like that lost-assed Christopher Columbus) or in fact, writing it. From the Library of Congress (please do click on the player and listen to the 1926 song, sung by Henry Wylie of Darien, GA of McIntosh County) and as you read, notice where this white guy claims he got this from):

Kumbaya: History of an Old Song

I am so sick and damned tired of white folk’s first, appropriation, then misappropriation of something that means the world to me. And worse, I’m equally sick and tired of supposedly “educated” Black folk using “Kumbaya” in the same way! Our stories and voices have long been stolen and used to fit the white gaze, so much so that even Black folk don’t have a damned clue of the origins of the words they speak, let alone their meanings and their history— even though we should! But, as Zora taught, “All my skinfolk ain’t my kinfolk.” 

Since the days of slavery, White supremacy hates the not-knowing (which is why the MAGA folk always blow their tops when they hear someone speaking a language they don’t know). And while it’s mostly true the slavers erased our languages and forbade us to speak them, they were sh*t out of luck when it came to my Gullah/Geechee people of the Sea Islands of SC and GA. And because they were SOL, we had Harriett Tubman, Denmark Vesey and The Stono Rebellion just to name a few. But they’re hip to it now and, as usual, under the guise of “helping” (that whole “White Savior” thing) they’ve got a plan to make sure it never happens again. Hell, even Yale’s got their fingers in the Gullah honeypot!

Rest in Power, Brother Glen Ford -- thanks for always "afflicting the comfortable and comforting the afflicted!"

Global Research News Hour · Glen Ford Memorial August 6 2021

Juneteenth is a Black, American Descendants of Slaves (ADOS) Celebration--it is NOT International, nor is it a "People of Color" Celebration!!

Hello Family.  It took white folk actually seeing their, "Protect and Serve" mofos murdering a Black man before their eyes for there to be massive marches and "Black Lives Matter" testimonials from them, as well as the Black gatekeepers we've been fighting all our lives in these alleged, United States of America (yeah, I see you Obama Family).  I don't trust any of you.

My big, bear-huggin', love of a nephew, (the son of my society-identified, "white" husband's sister who lives in Minnesota) took the above pictures for me as he helped clean up the neighborhood after Black folk there said, "E-f*ckin'-nough!'

In his text accompanying the last pic, he said, "I like this picture (but you probably won't see it on the news...Black woman and young child working to clean up the neighborhood...but it's way more sexy to show black men burning the place down").

I agreed, and the truth of it pissed me the hell off. But I digress.

Nobody that I know today, can talk about our ADOS claim to reparations better than Yvette Carnell and Antonio Moore. While I've got my own deep thoughts and receipts about which I'll write later on today,  I think listening to these two, dynamic younguns, is way more important right about now:






Listen and get it -- if you dare.  If you don't, leave the Straw-man arguments at home...

Happy Mother's Day Sisters...

I bought Paul Goodnight's, "Links & Lineage" in Washington, DC over 16 years ago because its absolute beauty spoke not only to my heart -- but to my very own "becoming" as a Black woman in these alleged, United States of America.

It's always had a prominent place in every home we've owned since. Now, it hangs again, in my new foyer in "the belly of the beast," keeping me grounded in, as Mr. James Baldwin said, "from whence we came."

When I look at it -- I see my Mama parting out the last two sections, so she could finish the "joined-plaits" she routinely put in my hair when I was little.  My mother died exactly a week before my birthday and on my niece's (my sister's daughter) birthday in 1996.  She was 65.  I was 40.  My niece was 18.  Links & lineage matter, Fam.

When I look at it -- I see me (I cannot tell you how much that little girl looks just like me when I was that age!), sittin' between her knees, lovin' her greasin' my scalp -- even as I wanted her to hurry up and finish when she got down to my "kitchen."  Links & lineage matter, Fam.

When I look at it -- I see my Gra'Mama workin' on yet another quilt ( I have one of her hand-sewn ones, stored in an old steamer trunk that belonged to Sal, my father's mother).  Gra'Mama died five days after New Year's Day in 2002.  She was 92.  I would be 46 that July.  My niece (who'd later have two daughters of her own) would be 24 that July as well.  She'd buried my mother, her oldest child of the living 10 of 15,  six years before.  Links & lineage matter, Fam.

I know it's been a minute since I've written any-damned-thing.  But today, I'm moved to salute all my Sisters who had, have, are, or were Mamas -- because links & lineage will always matter to me Fam...

"Blacks Without Borders" -- the Pan-Africanism about which Malcolm spoke?

"Imagine, Affimative Action -- with teeth."

(I can just see my brother, Asa, shaking his head in the affirmative right now!)
















I think capitalism is a boil on the ass of human-kind, particularly since our Black bodies played such a large part in its birth and growth here in America.  However, this, is certainly what I thought we would do with it -- either here, or on The Continent if that's what we wanted to do (because I had, and still have no doubt, that we could!).

It seems these brothers and sisters took what they learned about it and went back home -- giving back, as they continue to prosper.  And as much as I hate that boil, I just can't be mad at them for that (okay, I gotta admit, the diamond trader did make me uncomfortable, because I immediately thought about -- conflict/blood diamonds, who owns the mines, who's doing the mining and under what conditions.  But, I can't ignore how she's not only ensured that African talent benefits from what she does, but that our African cultural heritage is at the forefront of her work as well).

Watching this documentary tonight, I'm once again reminded of Alex Raventhorne's comment on "...and yet they wonder why POC emigrate" over At the Bar:

"Stay where you are celebrated, reconsider where you are tolerated, and flee where you are persecuted."

Think about it Family...

A "Homegoing" - Part 4a: Being there...

We arrived at Banjul International Airport on time (6:40 p.m. GST), and as I stepped off the plane into that hot darkness, apprehension and anticipation skipped off, hand-in-hand, right behind me.  Though not sure exactly into what I was headed - I certainly could not wait to find out.
 
As we waited on the runway for a bus to the main terminal, I was bathed in sweat due to the heat (and a sudden hot flash).  From the time I got a seat, to the time I got off at the terminal, the whole "only-wearing-deodorant-in the West" theory had pretty much become moot because - layered scents and Mitchum notwithstanding, I was as nose-stinging as everybody else by then!

Getting in the non-Gambian line, I struck up a conversation with a young blond girl walking next to me in the breezeway to passport control.  She'd been in-country for awhile working for an NGO and had just returned from a weekend in Europe (now armed with a more concrete knowledge of its geographical proximity to Africa, a white woman jetting off to Europe for a weekend didn't garner as much as a raised eyebrow from me - though it did give me some much-needed perspective down the road).

Remembering something I'd read about an airport fee, I asked if she knew anything about it.  She said they'd just instituted a new exit fee, but to her knowledge, there was no entry fee. And upon reaching the passport control desk, there wasn't one.  I got my entry stamp and asked whereto next.  With a flourish and a huge smile (the country is marketed as the "Smiling Coast"), I was directed to the luggage carousel.

It was wall-to-wall people, standing damned near shoulder-to-shoulder, in heat so thick - I felt like the Wicked Witch of the West when she got that water thrown on her ass.  And don't act like y'all don't remember that whole - "I'm melting!" - thing!  After awhile, the luggage carousel started to spit out its burden, and what felt like pure bedlam ensued.

There were passengers reaching over, under and around one another trying to retrieve bags; there was a swarm of local men everywhere, all shouting at once, asking if we needed help with bags or taxis; and then, there was the heat - times two.  Between constant, "No, thank yous," and anxiously searching the crowd of predominately Black faces for Gerald's, I started hot flashin' - times two, with sweat dripping down my face like I'd been rained on. 

After being nearly crushed amid the wave of passengers trying to retrieve bags and the locals trying to help them, and then wrestling the heavy, wheeled garment bag and its smaller, upright sister from the carousel (all while trying to hold onto the wheeled carry-on with the laptop in it!), I wish I'd said "Yes!  Thank you!" 

A little guy, obviously feeling sorry for me after watching my comedy of errors unfold, suddenly appeared, rolling cart at the ready saying, "Madame, would you not like some help?"  Drenched and overwhelmed I gave in (who could resist the "Madame?").  We headed to the baggage security line where they scan the luggage before entry to the main airport complex.

Once through, and with the little guy ready and willing to take the bags outside and find a taxi, I spotted Gerald - smiling and waving frantically.  I could hear him excitedly yelling, "Deborah!  Deborah!  I'm here!  I'm here!"   I was never so happy to see a familiar face!

As he made his way toward me, I told my dedicated helper, "Thank you so much, my friend's just over there, coming to meet me."  I gave him $5 for his good lookin' out  and when he thanked me so profusely, I was taken aback. I later found out from Gerald, that my $5 had been an extravagance.  The usual tip was $1.50 - $2.00 US.

That was to be the first of many lessons affirming the connections between people with very little and doing more with less in this place, and the way I'd been raised in South Carolina.  In that moment, being Black and American - a living, breathing embodiment of that "distance, deliberately created" to which Baldwin referred - felt at once, like a sucking chest wound, surrounded by warm fuzzies.  At least, with every U.S. dollar equivalent to 25 Dalasi in local currency at the time, I'd been able to help him HAVE a little more, but DO less - for a change.

After sweaty hugs and two-cheek kisses, Gerald introduced me to John, his sidekick and electrician from Belgium, who'd married a Senegalese woman and settled in The Gambia 10 years ago.  It was his car into which we piled and headed to the hotel I'd booked in Banjul.  It was non-stop catchin'-up for Gerald and me.  We'd not seen each other since my family moved from Florida to Maryland almost eight years ago.

I couldn't see much of the capital city as we entered because it was dark, and street lights were few and far between.  I could make out some single-family home neighborhoods, government buildings and paved roads though.  Once we reached the LAICO Atlantic, Banjul (owned by the Libyan Arab African Investment Company headquartered in Tunis), they struggled with the luggage, while I went to check-in. 

Expecting my late arrival, my key and "Hotel Passport" card were ready at the front-desk.  The back of the card reads:  "This card is your passport in the Hotel.  It will be requested by the reception staff when collecting your key, by bar or restaurant staff when charging to your room and by the cashier for meals included in the price of your stay. Please therefore retain this card at all times until surrendering it to the cashier on departure."

I think, it's to make sure only "paying" guests are availing themselves of the "amenities" - but that's just me.

He led us to my room, showed me how to work the lights with the key card and the guys followed him back to the lobby, saying they'd meet me by the pool for a drink.  I said, "Just what the doctor ordered!  Let me wash my damned face - the rest can wait!"

There weren't a lot of people hanging out, so I found them quickly.  The night was warm with a light breeze - and it was beautiful sitting out there!  Gerald and I both had a Guinness.  I rarely drink beer, but this one was downright refreshing given the day I'd had!  Since he was driving, John decided on a locally bottled, Fanta Orange soda.  Amid fits of raucous laughter, we talked for about an hour - them, excitedly bringing me up to date on the center's progress (these fellas had been busy!), and me, recounting what I'd learned so far about international travel, while intermittently practicing my French on Jon - and failing miserably!

I told Gerald I wanted to see just what all they'd been doing and rising to leave, he suggested, "You better get plenty of rest then!  I've arranged for you, a personal tour guide to be with you during the day."  Surprised and a little wary, I asked, "And where will you be?!" Reading my mind, he said laughing, "Oh Deborah, but do not worry - you will love her!

He explained he and John would most likely be at the center working during the day and he just wanted to make sure I'd be able to see as much of the country and its culture that I could.  "But you are also more than welcome to come and work too if you like!" he said laughing.  I got the two-cheek kiss goodbye from both of them and Gerald said, poking John in the side - "We will not come for her until around noon tomorrow because she is NOT a morning person!" 

Laughing (because anyone who knows me well - would cosign that), I walked them through the lobby to the car.  Gerald asked had I changed any money yet and I said no.  He reached in his pocket and gave me 1000 Dalasi saying, "Some pocket money, in case you need to get anything before we come back for you tomorrow.  We'll settle up once you change some money."  Before they pulled away, I leaned in the window and asked him if he'd made those "arrangements" yet.  Patting my hand, he said,  "It will be no problem Deborah, don't worry!!  Tomorrow, I will do it tomorrow."  Shaking my head, I said good night and went inside.

I got back to the room  and realized I was tired, but not sleepy.  I took a Guinness from the fridge, went on the terrace and smoked a cigarette (it was advertised online as "non-smoking" - for the most part, I'm a rule follower).  Sitting there in the shadows, that full feeling began to creep up into my chest as I said aloud to myself, "Welcome home sistah."  I finished my beer, had another cigarette and went in to take a shower.

The husband had warned the shower would be compact - built only to wet yourself down, lather yourself up and rinse yourself off.  He was right.  It felt a little cramped (and so not suited for languishing!).  Taking the shower head down to ensure a thorough, whole-body rinse, I thought, "Damn good way to conserve water, 'cause I'm sure as hell ready to get out of this cubicle!"  I can't lie, I like to languish.

When I slid into my pajamas and got between the sheets, all clean, lotioned and "Butterfly Flower"-smellin', the body just said, "Aw-w-w yeah!!" - and promptly fell the hell out.  A loud knock on the door around 9 or 10 p.m. jolted me awake.  It was a young man on staff with an aerosol can, coming to spray the room for mosquitoes (not sure if mosquito nets were available upon request, never occurred to me to ask).  I waited in the hallway until he was done and then went back in, surveying the room to which I'd not really paid much attention upon my arrival.

Very clean (I already told y'all back in the Brussels bathroom!  Not Clean - pet peeve), with all the amenities one would expect or need:  two twin beds (cheaper), a safe, tucked away in the very spacious armoire, the obligatory, pay-as-you-go mini-bar/fridge, a television and a desk.  A screened, sliding glass door leads out to the small terrace facing the Bird Sanctuary behind the hotel. As stated on the back of the "Hotel Passport, breakfast and dinner are also included in the price of the stay.

Since I was up, I decided to send the husband and sons an email letting them know I was safe.  The laptop battery was about spent, so I figured I might as well plug it in and let it charge overnight.  I should have just gone back to bed because none of the outlets could accommodate the plug! 

I went to the front desk and the guy on duty smiled as I recounted how I'd searched high and low, but could not find a suitable outlet. He said, "But Madame, you would never have found one, you need an adapter to use your American electronics here!" 

Seeing as I was going to be in the country for awhile, I forked over the 150 Dalasi, took my adapter and went back to my room to send my emails.  I must've missed reading that in my haste to book - because there was no Wifi access in the room!  I called back to the front desk, only to be advised that Wifi was only available in the lobby areas!  I have to say, that was the only drawback about the hotel for me.

Since I was expecting those other "arrangements" to come through the next day, it wasn't that big of a deal, but in the interest of Gambian tourism, they might want to look into that set-up.  I decided to wait until morning and went back to my room, set my phone alarm for 8:00 a.m. (right in the middle of breakfast being served so as not to miss it!) and fell asleep watching the BBC channel.

I slept very well.  So well in fact, I got up at 7:15 a.m. - before the alarm went off!  Starving, I threw on some sweats and flip-flops and headed to the restaurant for breakfast - camera in-hand (for those of you who've done any late-night clubbin' - y'all know - things that look good in the dark, tend to look a whole lot different in the daylight!).  Set up in the inside dining room was a smorgasbord of British, American and Gambian staples - and you could get omelets made to order while you waited (which I did)!  Rather than eat inside, I decided to go back out to the poolside-table we'd shared the night before.

The pool, now abuzz with activity, slapped me in the face with that "geographical proximity to Europe perspective" that I mentioned earlier!  Aside from the staff, I was the only black face in the joint!

With music and water aerobics going full-tilt,  everybody was quite friendly.  I was just absolutely undone that I could be in Africa, with just as many white folk as I'd left back home!!  All I could think about was how ignorant I'd been all my life, AND -  how woefully inadequate our education system in America was, is, and continues to be for Black folk.  I had a cigarette and went back to my room to call Gerald.

I reached him on his cell, and he and John were at the center.  He couldn't believe I was up and about so early in the morning.  He said he and John would be by around noon with the young lady who'd become my constant companion during my stay.  I told him, since I'd not taken a shower yet - that was perfect!

After I'd showered and dressed, I decided to go out and investigate the digs.  There was really nothing a foreigner would lack if they chose to vacation there.  Time was still - sort of.  I felt like I'd been transported to peace and tranquility.  Living up to the moniker attached to the country, every staff person I met had a smile and a conversation for me.  Most were surprised when I told them I was from America.  One of the landscapers said, "We don't get many Black Americans here.  It's good to see you sistah!"  I was, at once, happy - and ashamed.

Noon came - no Gerald.  I called him on his cell to find out where they were - of course, he was at the center.  "We'll be there right away!"

I decided to wait by the pool.  On the way, I stopped at one of the hotel bars for a Guinness.  I was served by one of the cutest, most amiable, little chocolate girls who reminded me of myself (in much younger days!).  Her name was Bintou, "But everybody calls me Mama" she said, smiling.  She'd become a welcome face in the short time I was there.

I took my beer and went outside where a local vendor was set up.  His name was Ibrahim, and he was making some of the most beautiful sand paintings I'd never seen.  Here's a video of the process.  I apologize, I'm no computer wonk and I've yet to figure out how to re-size my videos - with crispness intact - for Blogger ("Tomorrow, I will do it tomorrow" as Gerald said!):

Yeah, no - it is not only in The Gambia that sand painting is done.  But Ibrahim is a businessman (and a capitalist!) just like any other businessman all over the world - marketing to the unsuspecting buyer is everything!  As I watched him, I realized, if I could draw as well as he does - I could sand paint too!  It's exactly how I made my Christmas stockings with our names on it - but with glitter, not sand.

As I said on the end of the clip, I had to go.  Gerald, John and my new friend were waiting in the lobby.

To be continued:  A "Homegoing" - Part 4b:  Links, lineage and the legacy of "Black Rice"

A "Homegoing" - Part 3: Going "back to Africa" on my own terms

Mr. Baldwin's, "Where are you from" story is familiar to most of us whose ancestors' entry into this country "was a bill of sale" (the remainder of the discussion's here and here).

Growing up in the Deep South, I was always confused when white folk would sneer at us and say, "Y'all niggers need to go back to Africa!"  Angrily, I'd always say to myself, "What?  (I was little!), I ain't never been to Africa!  I was born right here!"

Obviously, that "distance created, created deliberately" to which Baldwin referred, coupled with the physical and psychological barbarity experienced at the hands of our countrymen for hundreds of years (and counting) - had all been very effective in ensuring that I too, would have no knowledge whatsoever of whence I came. 

But after more than 25 years of critically thinking and realizing that I both wanted and needed to know, I now had a golden opportunity to physically and psychologically  diminish that "distance" in less than 48 hours - and  not at the behest of any of those "real Americans" in Dixie - but at my own.

My own, "Up in the Air"...

Before I dive into this, let me just say that from Newark on out, all times are approximate given my very, American idea that I didn't need to figure it all out.  After all, everybody's got clocks right?

But while my mind had dismissed keeping up with the whole time-change thing, I discovered later on that the body had been paying strict attention.  In very short order, it would register its stern opposition to my wearing it the hell out - with a vengeance!  But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

I'd left home at 9:40 a.m. CST headed to Houston.  The flight was about 45 minutes and since we didn't have to deplane as they dropped off and picked up passengers, I texted the sons and called Rhoda to check in while we sat on the tarmac.  The unloading and loading went pretty quickly - and shortly after noon, we were on our way to Newark where I'd change planes for Europe - and lose an hour. 

We arrived at 4:30 p.m. EST, and as we disembarked and blended toward our gate to Brussels, the linguistic composition of the passengers noticeably shifted from mostly English-speaking, to a veritable Tower of Babel!  And to my surprise, I was starting to "hear" bits and pieces of French and Spanish conversations going on around me.  I thought to myself, "Aww yeah, NOW, I'm feelin' that whole international traveler thing!"

I checked in and sent the husband a text letting him know where I was (I didn't in Houston because of the 10 1/2-hour time distance).  When I hit send, I got a pop-up saying the battery needed to be charged.  A frantic search of my carry-on produced nothing - I'd left the damned charger on the kitchen counter!

Serendipity reared its beautiful head once again though, and not too far from my gate (thank the Lawd!), I found an electronics store.  I picked up a compatible charger and headed back to the boarding area, stopping for a large cup of coffee on the way.  Taking a seat near a plug, I sipped coffee, people-watched and waited.

When the call to board came at 5:40 p.m., I was ready.  Settling into my seat, I pulled out Mab Seagrest's, "Memoir of a Race Traitor" which I should have been able to finish on the plane, if only I could've just concentrated on one thing.  At 6:30 p.m. EST - which I note because it marked my descent into real time-change hell! - we began to taxi down the runway. 

Watching the lilliputian, Newark-Liberty International recede from view - I exhaled.  It had been an absolutely beautiful day for flying so far, and the trip had gone without so much as a hitch.  The stone was more than halfway rolled up the hill.

Our estimated arrival time in Brussels was 7:50 a.m. (CET) - a seven and half hour flight!  All I knew was I'd been awake since 6:40 a.m. (CST) and the body was saying, "Hey!  How 'bout a little shut-eye here!  But since my seat was one row behind the exit row, I  resisted.   I thought I'd better pay close attention to the signal-woman in the aisle, since I sure as hell knew I couldn't drink up all that water out there if we crashed into it!  But once the show was over - I was down for the count.

I remember being awakened for dinner and later, standing in a short line to "answer the call."  Awake now, I considered writing, but getting the laptop - out of the carry-on, in the overhead bin - was more than I wanted to do.  Instead, I watched "Eat, Pray, Love" and really enjoyed it!  When it was over, I looked out of the window into a pitch-black night and decided to read.  The body, however, had other ideas.  After only a few pages - I passed out again.

I was happy I had a window seat for the many times I awoke and found myself leaned into the bulkhead, scrunched up on that little pillow, with that thin, little blanket pulled up around my neck.  And based on that telltale damp spot where my face met my palm, I'd definitely been sleeping with my mouth wide open.  In between sleep and wake, I vaguely remember a kid crying. But since that's what kids do, it didn't really interfere with the many catnaps I'd have between then and Brussels.

I awoke to the flight attendant asking me to pull my seat back up because we were preparing to land.  I raised the window shade and realized it was the beginning of a gorgeous morning!  As we descended, the view of the city just took my breath away!  It was absolutely stunning!  I made a mental note - "Get a Rick Steves book and plan one of those Eurail Pass trips to Europe!  You need to see this place and the surrounding countries at ground level at least once before you check the hell out!"

I made my way off the plane, following the herd to Customs and Immigration.  I stood in a fast-moving line and after my documents had been verified and the pat-down was completed, I traipsed right on through the checkpoint (I was sure glad I'd gotten that visa beforehand!).

Upon arrival in Brussels, everyone with connections to Africa had to trek to Terminal T.  Since we had an almost four-hour layover, I took my time, window-shopping and people watching as I walked through this fairly new and very clean airport (I took the moving sidewalk whenever I could!).

I didn't see "Up in the Air," okay?  But, I am convinced there's some connection with that movie coming out and this Nespresso ad, plastered all over the Brussels airport at what seems like every three feet!  I mean he's cute and all, but I'm not buying a coffee-maker cuz he says so! {smdh}

When I got to the gate, there were no Brussels Air representatives there yet, so I decided to go freshen-up.  And just like the rest of the airport, the bathroom (my number one pet peeve) was spotless!  A young Black woman - with beautifully smooth, not made-up, coffee-colored skin and Senegalese twists trailing down her back - was standing at the mirror talking to a little Black girl, no more than seven or eight years old.  She was wearing the same "joined plaits" in her hair that I used to have from first to fourth grade.  With a strangely "full" feeling in my chest, I stopped in the doorway for a minute thinking, "Two faces of me!"  I'd have that feeling more times than I could count from there on out.

I smiled and said hello, excused myself as I passed between them and chose the first stall.  I could hear the little girl saying she lived in America, but she was going to The Gambia  with her mom (in the stall next to me as it turned out) because her grandfather had died.  Then she asked, "How come you talk like that, are you from Africa?" The young woman laughed and said proudly, "Yes, but I live in France!  I'm going with my father and uncle to see my grandparents back home in Senegal."

When I came out of the stall, I almost collided with the little girl's mother.  Smiling, we both apologized for the near miss and said hello as her daughter came over, excited to tell her all about her new "friend."  I walked over to the sink to wash my hands, silently enjoying the small sampling of the beauty of the African diaspora in this Brussels bathroom.

Hands dripping, I was looking around for one of those folded-paper towel holders or, one of those on-the-wall dryer things, when what sounded like a vacuum cleaner starting up made me jump.  I turned to see the Gambian mother with her hand in this yellow, air-blowing thing.  I laughed and told her, "That's exactly what I was looking for - I think!"  Moving my hand around, I noticed the "Dyson" logo on the machine and thought to myself, "Vacuum cleaners?  Fans?  Seems "air" is quite lucrative for this guy!"

I started back to the gate, stopping for a bottle of juice and some gum.  Good thing my new phone had a "Smart Converter" app on it, because she gave me the price in Euros and I would've had no clue how much it was in dollars!

I got to the gate and checked in among a sea of faces in various shades of black, brown and yellow, wearing everything from traditional African attire to typical, Western jeans and sweaters.  There were some whites, but the passenger composition had shifted.  People of color were in the majority in that camp!  And it felt good.

I pulled out the laptop and sent the men in my life this short email:

Sent: Sun 12/5/2010 6:38 PM
Subject: One last flight!
It's 2:30 a.m. home time and 9:30 am (not sure) here in Brussels. Flight to Gambia leaves at 11:20 a.m. Will text when I get there.
Love you guys and thanx for everything!

I really didn't know what time it was anywhere! The computer said 6:38 p.m., the clocks said 9:30 a.m. and I just guessed about what time it was at home (I didn't even consider the husband's 10 1/2-hour time difference from CST!).

After making some small talk with a lady next to me, I read a bit while we waited for the call to board.  When it finally came I was excited.  In about six hours, I'd be planting my feet on terra firma for awhile.

I got situated in my window seat and a few minutes later, two young Chinese men took the middle and aisle seats next to me (three of their friends took the middle row of seats across the aisle from us).  No offense intended, but I think deodorant is mainly a Western thing.  I could be wrong, but it sure seemed like it when my nose started stinging with the scent of body odor gone bad.  All I could do was lean into the bulkhead and wait until the nose adapted to the scent as it usually does.

Once we got up in the air and the signal-women had done their thing, the simulated flight path displayed on my very own miniature TV screen caught and held my attention.  I watched as the little plane flew up and across the UK toward Ireland.  I looked out of the window just as we flew over a cluster of windmills somewhere in southern Ireland and thought smiling, "This is way better than playing, "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego!" (a game we played fanatically when the sons were small!).  I leaned back in my seat, put on the headphones and started watching, "Two and a Half Men" - and promptly fell asleep.

The seat-neighbor's head falling on my shoulder, and the sound of the captain's voice, saying something about approaching Casablanca woke me up.  I looked out of the window and as far as the eye could see, there was nothin' but sand -- from the almost black, to a rainbow of browns, reds and beiges.

I fumbled for my camera, and over the next couple of hours, I intermittently snapped pictures as the terrain changed from sand alone -- to sand meeting water at the coastline. I got that "full" feeling in my chest as I watched all the different shades of the same "grains" pass by my window.  After awhile, I went to the bathroom to get the circulation going in my legs - waking the seat-neighbors. No harm, no foul though because the food cart was in the aisle when I got back and e'erybody was wakin' up! I squeezed past back to my seat, skipping the meal in favor of a steaming cup of coffee.

I switched my TV to the simulator thing to see exactly where we were. The little plane was slowly moving south toward Senegal. I leaned into the bulkhead and read myself into another catnap.

As it turns out, the body decided to go for the "dead sleep" instead, keeping me damned-near comatose for about an hour and a half. Not until I heard the seat-neighbors talking back and forth in Chinese as they got their bags out of the overhead bin, did I realize we were on the ground! Wide awake now, I turned to look out of the window for the African Renaissance monument I'd read about last year -- and there it was in the distance. We'd landed in Dakar...



...and I heard my beautiful, young sister, India in my head, singing...

Photograph: Seyllou/AFP/Getty Images

I can appreciate the fact that the monument's been a real bone of contention for a lot of people in Senegal.  But I can't argue with what the analyst said in the last paragraph at the link because - it does "make a heck of a first impression for a visitor upon arriving in Senegal."

Even though I couldn't see it in detail from the plane, I knew it existed.  And getting a chance to be there to see it - even if only in silhouette - it meant a great deal to old, mushy-'bout-my-people me.  I plan to go back and see it one day - only up close and personal the next time.

The layover in Dakar, much like the one in Houston, was brief.  We didn't have to deplane, and the unloading and loading of baggage and passengers went quickly.  Before I knew it, we were slowly taxiing down the runway, sending that damned stone careening down the other side of the hill at quite a clip as we took off.  Once  airborne, I took a couple more photos of the city and watched as the sun began to set on the horizon.  I sat back in my seat for the very last time as we made the 20-minute trip to The Gambia.  And yes, I was feeling pret-t-t-y good about what I'd accomplished.

To be continued - A "Homegoing" - Part 4a:  Being there

A "Homegoing" - Part 2b: "Getting there" lessons continued

I'm hoping my litany of hiccups in Part 2a , will be helpful for those who've not yet travelled "across the pond" - going "home" - but plan to do so one day.  If nothing else, at least you'll know that spontaneity alone, won't get you there!

I'd rescheduled my departure date for Dec. 4th (and changed my 3-day, hotel reservation to coincide with my Dec. 5th arrival), pushing that rock a few feet further up the hill. I figured I might as well keep it movin' - so I printed the application the husband had so helpfully sent on the 24th and completed it, leaving Item 12 - Passport No., Issue Date, Expiry Date) blank, until the passport came. At the end, I read through these, just to ensure I had, or soon would have, all of them):

VISA APPLICATION REQUIREMENTS (please note that we canNOT process unless requirements are complete)

1. Valid passport
2. One passport-size photograph (taken in the last six months; please write name and passport number on the back and sign)
3. Completed and signed application form
4. A nonrefundable application fee of $100.00 in money order only, payable to the Embassy of The Gambia
5. Prepaid self-addressed/return envelope (FedEx/UPS or Priority/Express Mail recommended)
6. Personal or telephone interview may be required.
7. Regular visa processing time 3 – 4 days.

It was Nov. 25th and now, I was in that - "on, or about" window, waiting on my "expedited" passport. When I'd applied Nov. 10th, the courthouse clerk wrote "5 - 10 days" in the top right-hand corner of the application and date-stamped it. The State Department email said it'd been printed on Nov. 23rd (apparently "printed" really just meant - "printed"). I'd been waiting 15 days - and counting. Add to that, the 3 - 4 day, processing time - and there was no way I would've made that first flight I booked!

The mailman delivered the passport Nov. 26th in the morning (Can't really complain right?  It did arrive "about" the 25th).  I filled in Item 12 and headed immediately to the post office (sans passport). I don't know why, but I thought Item 1 meant, I had to have a valid passport - so I could complete Item 12!

When my oldest was four, and doing his best, "I'm making my bed" imitation, he found his Skeletor among the tangle of sheets and blankets.  Yelling to me in my room, he said, "Look!!  It's serendipity, Mommy!  I did a double-take and walked into his room, saying, "Serendipity?  What's that mean (thinking he didn't)?"  He looked at me, laughed - and said, "When you find something good that you're not looking for!" I said to myself, "How did he know that??"  When I asked him, he just hunched his shoulders saying, "I don't know - I just do!"  I've never forgotten that day.  He's always been an old soul to me - still is!  But I digress.

I share that little vignette simply because, for some reason, as I headed to the "big" post office where I was sure I'd get any, and all questions I had answered - my "Low Fuel" light came on.  So I got off the expressway about a half-mile before the exit, deciding to go to the closer, "little" post office - inside the Shell gas station (this IS Texas, y'all!). 

As I started completing the Express Mail form for overnight delivery, the young Ethiopian guy - doing double-duty as postal clerk and gas station cashier - walked less than 10 steps over to the "postal" counter to help me.  I told him what I was trying to do, and that I'd just got my passport that morning.  He said, "Oh!  I'm waiting for my passport myself, so I can send it in for my visa to London!" (emphasis mine)

I said, "Send it in?  With the visa application?  He said, "Yes, yes!  How else will they be able to stamp it?"  Actually, having the visa stamped on the passport never crossed my mind (I thought they'd just mail me a page for it to put in the passport).  I told him, "Man am I glad I ran into you!  I have to go home and get the passport to include in that envelope!"  Serendipity, no?

So I hustled the half-mile back home, got the passport, put it in the envelope and went back to the "little" post office.  I tracked it with the overnight mail number - it was delivered on Monday, Nov. 29th (Why had I paid extra to expedite it - over the weekend - when no one would be there to process it???  Could've just sent it Express mail and got the same result!).  I called the embassy to make sure it'd be expedited because I was leaving Dec. 4th.  They assured me it would be - and it was.  I got it back Dec. 1st.

I'd not spoken to Gerald directly since Nov. 12th. We'd been communicating intermittently through our mutual, 81 year-old, Jewish friend in Key West (part of his collection - which he eventually plans to ship to The Gambia - was still being stored there). Our last cross-communication had me arriving Nov. 30th, but neither Rhoda, nor I had been able to reach him before then to tell him anything different (figured when he showed up at the airport - and I hadn't - he'd know, and call some-damned- body!). He did - in a panic - 20 minutes after 1 a.m. on Dec. 1st, waking her up when I should have been walking off the plane (there is a 7-hour time difference from EST).

When I called her later that morning, she said, "I'm glad you called.  Gerald is frantic!  I told him you wouldn't be there until Dec. 5th. Didn't you tell him?" I told her I'd tried calling his cell several times, but I kept getting a recording that my call had not gone through. Turns out he'd bought a Gambian SIM card and now had a Gambian telephone number - and had given it to her, to give to me (did I say he was really "single-minded?"). She said, "He gave me a "220" number for you to call him, but it didn't look like enough digits!" "When?" I asked. "The last time I talked to him," she said matter-of-factly.

I took the number and called Gerald. He was frantic. "Me and my friend, John were there waiting at the airport for you! I thought you got stuck in Brussels!"

I told him just as frantically, "If you'd given me your new - Gambian number - I could have told you I'd be delayed!"  He went through the whole thing about giving it to Rhoda, and thinking she'd pass it on to me.  I cut him off and said, "Never mind, Man - I'll be there on Dec 5th, same time.  And since we haven't spoken, I made a reservation at The LAICO Atlantic in Banjul for three days.  Any luck on that "great-rate hotel" arrangement yet? 

He said no, but by the time I got there, he'd know. I told him, "I'm sure glad I made those damned reservations!!" We both laughed, knowing one another too well.

I hung up and emailed the husband to tell him sorry I'd missed him on Skype - but I had to get my damned hair braided (he's ten and a half hours ahead of CST) and start packing! He said:

Hey,
No worries...Got in and the internet was down, ironed clothes then it came back.  Should have called and told you I would be on later. Hope you got ur hair done and all.

I love you kiddo, I really do.
LYAHAW

I answered:

Thank you so much for making this trip possible. I’ll be in here all morning tomorrow packing, so I’ll talk to you then.

Me

He responded, Dec. 2nd (his time):

Hey:
I am so glad that you will be taking this adventure. Push yourself the whole time because you can rest when you get home. See everything you need to, talk with the people, visit the public records building and see what's there. I know you're breathing is the thing, but get out and mingle with everyone and most of all, eat the traditional food. I want to know how it is.

See you tonight or later on today.

LYAHAW

I smiled to myself contentedly thinking, "Ain't Understanding Mellow?"

I'd arranged with the oldest to come stay at the house with the dog while I was gone, and to take me to the airport at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday morning.  Excited (and scared I'd forget something really important), I didn't go to bed until 4 a.m.   But by 6:45 a.m., I was dressed and ready to go!

And by 9 a.m., James Baldwin and I were snug, as bug, in a rug - in my window seat, on that Continental flight, heading to Houston for a short lay-over and then, on to Brussels - final stop, Banjul, the capital of The Gambia!


A "Homegoing" - Part 3:  Going "back to Africa" - on my own terms

A "Homegoing" - Part 2a: "Getting there" lessons

Getting there involved wa-a-a-y more than I expected - especially since, unbeknownst to me at the time, the window in which I'd given myself to meet Gerald in-country (on, or about Nov. 21st) was only opened a crack!

"They do not know the world in which they live"

Marian Wright Edelman

That day sadly, she was talking about today's children (which, in itself, is profoundly instructive).  How can the children "know" anything of this world in which they live, if their parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, or any of the people in their lives have no idea either? 

And while there are some teachers capable of helping children "know," let's not forget that most of their world views have been reduced by the system in which they work and, were also educated!  As it turns out, that "cracked window" is a great analogy because it speaks to how absolutely non-global, and unexceptional the lived experiences of many in this country - particularly Black folk - continue to be.

Luckily, the county library provided an unrestricted view of the world for me as a young child.  You could know as much as you wanted - and it was close by.  In only a five-block walk down King St. to Calhoun, I could lose myself in the lives of people and places far-removed from those I knew.  And I could take them home, because I had a library card!  On the fire escape, with my nose buried in a book, is usually where my Mama found me when she got off work (raisin' holy hell as she came through the back door, because I'd not yet swept the sidewalk or something).

Later, because we had to fulfill a two-year, foreign language requirement before we could graduate, I had another opportunity to know a little of the world.  My choices?  French or Spanish - that's it! While it's changed a lot since then, some things remain the same (do peruse the other links within the link, a prime example of why we're viewed as "ugly Americans"). 

It was my distinct privilege, to learn French from two Black women who made it such a fun, and culturally interesting endeavor, I decided it'd be my major in college (despite the loud protestations from my mother and guidance counselor who both told me, "You better major in Education, or Business Administration so you can get yourself a real job!").

Then came the military, that "safe" (tongue's firmly planted in cheek here), three-hots-and-a-cot place, where I, and many of my kinfolk sought to escape the lives we'd been living, as well as the pigeon-holed opportunities awaiting us after high school or college if we stayed. For a year, I was immersed in the Russian language and culture.  Native, Russian-speaking instructors exposed me to a culture I'd known absolutely nothing about other than to be suspect - and afraid. (I was in the military dammit!  And we were in a "Cold War"  - with them!).

I knew nothing about international travel before this trip.  Yes, I'd lived in Central America for a couple years - but the military handled all of the paperwork to get us there.  We just showed up with the husband's orders, smiled for the camera and got our passports.  The household goods and car shipments, as well as the booking of our seats (including the dog's)  - was all their doing.  And that missed opportunity at "knowing," was at the time, just fine with me.

But when I began the process of getting to The Gambia on Nov. 5th, it became crystal clear to me that I'd assumed much, - and didn't know JACK!  

I told the husband, sons and Gerald that I was definitely going.  Then I went downtown Nov. 9th. to renew my 14-year, expired passport (paying extra to expedite it).

The next day, I hopped on Govarm.com looking for a ticket.  I had a budget within which I was working for the round-trip ticket, hotel stay and pocket money - so the shorter, more expensive flight was definitely out of the question. I did find a considerably, less expensive flight though.  I'd leave here at 6:50 a.m. on the 29th, arriving Banjul at 6:20 p.m. on the 30th.  I figured, "What the hell!  I like reading (and looking out the window) - so, Nov. 10th, I booked it. I emailed the husband my reservation so he'd know how to track me, then foolishly sat back feeling pret-t-ty good about what I'd accomplished. Hell, I thought I was good to go!

But when the husband Skyped me with a question the next morning, it started the "stone" rolling on what would seem like (due to my "cracked window," world view) a Sisyphean task - of "getting there."

"Did ya call Sprint to let them know you'll be travelling overseas?"  Confused, I asked, "What for?"

"Well, your phone may not work over there you know (How in the hell was I supposed to know that?  Last time we were overseas there were no cell phones!) - you just might want to call them and check it out."  When we disconnected, I did - and it didn't.  I had to buy a new damned phone - which was not in the budget (I did, however, get a discount, seeing as I was in the "up-grade eligible window" and all).  It was Nov. 11th, and the phone wouldn't get here for a few days.
   
I called Gerald Nov. 12th, to give him my itinerary, since he'd already told me he'd arrange for me to stay at the hotel he'd been calling home in The Gambia for 4-6 months intervals a year, for the last four years or so.

"Fantastic!" (his favorite word) he said excitedly. "It's a beau-ti-ful place, you will love it! You can walk right out of your room and onto the beach! They know me there, and they'll give you a good rate! You have your visa from the embassy, yes?"

I felt the "stone" rolling back down the hill a few feet.  "What visa?  And what damned embassy, Gerald?!"  I started to feel a little anxious, mainly because my carefully-cultivated-over-the-years, being-in-control-of shit, was totally non-existent now.

"Oh Deb-o-rah," he said exasperated, "You know you will need to contact the Gambian embassy for a visa, don't you?  If you can't get it before you leave, then you can get one from the airport in The Gambia once you arrive - BUT, you might get stopped at immigration in Brussels when you go to change planes, and if you don't have the proper papers you could be stuck there!"
 
"Stuck?? - Oh, I'm not doin' that shit!" I told him emphatically.  I told him quite confidently (steeped in my ignorant American-ness), "I'll contact the embassy."  We chatted about the fact that I'd had to buy a new phone.  He said, "When you get here, you can buy a Gambian SIM card and your calls while you're here will be cheaper.  I said, "What!  Buy a SIM card??"  He said, "Yes, then your local calls will be much cheaper because you won't be first, calling to the U.S. to call here" (so much for Crystal from Sprint's spiel about my saving money).

I asked him what I should pack because I'd started reading about the country online and I didn't want to offend their Muslim culture.  I asked him if the women were covered, he said no, African Muslims do not cover, but Arab Muslims, of which there are some - do.  I said, "Alright Gerald, you'll be at the airport to pick me up - right?  And you'll call me back in a little while to let me know that the room is all set - right?"  He said, "Yes! Yes! No problem!"  It was a phrase with which I'd become very familiar during my entire time in The Gambia.
 
On Nov. 13th, I started to feel a little antsy because Gerald hadn't called me back to confirm the room was set.  When the husband Skyped me later that morning, I shared my concern about where I was going to be staying.  I told him I was just going to make my own reservations somewhere for a few days so I'd be sure to have someplace to stay until Gerald let me know what was what.  He thought it was a good idea.  So when we disconnected, I went back to Govarm.com and made a reservation at the Laico Atlantic Banjul  for three days, arriving Nov. 30th.  I felt better.

I decided to go to the State Department's - International Travel site for The Gambia on Nov. 14th and 15th.  I wanted to see what else I might need to know.  Turns out - it was plenty!  I signed up for the Smart Traveler Enrollment Program listserve at the Embassy in Banjul.  At least if something happened to me, somebody else in the country would also know I was there.  Then I read this:

ENTRY/EXIT REQUIREMENTS: A passport, visa, and evidence of yellow fever vaccination are required...There are no uniform procedures for Gambian immigration officials and the best way to avoid any potential problem is to get a visa before entering the country. A $10 (U.S. dollars) tourist levy is charged upon arrival at the airport. Payment is only accepted in U.S. dollars, British pounds, or Euros.

At least my decision to get the visa before I left was a good one.  And the 411 on the tourist levy in U.S. dollars was helpful.  But, a yellow fever vaccination?  Hell, I hate needles!!  I bookmarked the Bureau of Consular Affairs website, read about the "bumsters" (yes they call them that there too), and when I got to the Medical Facilities and Health Information section and read the following - I felt that damned "rock," rolling backward again:

Before visiting The Gambia, you may need to get the following vaccinations and medications for vaccine-preventable diseases and other diseases you might be at risk for at your destination:

• Routine Recommended if you are not up-to-date with routine shots such as, measles/mumps/rubella (MMR) vaccine, diphtheria/pertussis/tetanus (DPT) vaccine, poliovirus vaccine, etc.
• Hepatitis A...travelers to developing countries with "standard" tourist itineraries, accommodations, and food consumption behaviors.
• Hepatitis B Recommended for all unvaccinated persons...
• Typhoid Recommended for all unvaccinated people traveling to or working in West Africa, especially if staying with friends or relatives or visiting smaller cities, villages, or rural areas where exposure might occur through food or water.
• Polio Recommended for adult travelers who have received a primary series with either inactivated poliovirus vaccine (IPV) or oral polio vaccine (OPV)...
• Yellow Fever CDC yellow fever vaccination recommendation for travelers to The Gambia: For all travelers ≥9 months of age...Vaccination should be given 10 days before travel and at 10 year intervals if there is on-going risk...
• Meningococcal (meningitis) Recommended if you plan to visit countries that experience epidemics of meningococcal disease during December through June.
• Rabies Recommended for travelers spending a lot of time outdoors, especially in rural areas, involved in activities such as bicycling, camping, or hiking...
• Malaria:  Areas of The Gambia with Malaria: All. (more information)

If you will be visiting an area of The Gambia with malaria, you will need to discuss with your doctor the best ways for you to avoid getting sick with malaria. Ways to prevent malaria include the following:

• Taking a prescription antimalarial drug
• Using insect repellent and wearing long pants and sleeves to prevent mosquito bites
• Sleeping in air-conditioned or well-screened rooms or using bednets

All I could say was "Lawd, have mercy!"  I couldn't even remember the last time I had any kind of shot!  And Polio!?!  Really??  Was the "Dark Continent" overlooked when the Salk vaccine was successfully introduced - in 1955??? {smdh}

What with waiting on my passport, getting the visa, and now - all of these damned shots! - I was cuttin' it as close as close could be!  I had exactly two weeks to make this happen!

On Nov. 16, I called the International Travel clinic on the base to make an appointment for the shots.  I could get some earlier, but the Yellow Fever shot was only given on Tuesdays - and it was Tuesday (I later found out the reason for the Tuesday thing was because they weren't opening this very expensive vial for just one person, they needed at least a few people before cracking that seal.  So they scheduled as many as they could on Tuesdays).  I got a Nov. 23rd appointment.  "Still okay, I've got six days before I leave" I said to my uninformed self.

I felt the anxiety building again and when the husband Skyped me - it showed.  I just let loose a torrent of "How in the hells?! and WTFs??"  He told me he'd see what he could find out about getting the visa and email me.  He did, attaching the application and adding, "of course you need your passport number because you have to write that on the back of a passport picture you need to send them."

Down rolled the "rock" again.  I still hadn't gotten the passport (it had been exactly a week since I'd applied for renewal -expedited).  I was pretty much stuck at that point.  Frustrated as hell, I started second-guessing my decision.  After all, I didn't know anything about where I was going, and I sure as hell didn't know much about getting there; and I didn't know anyone there but Gerald! While I knew he'd look out for me and show me around, I know him well enough to know that his single-mindedness regarding his "Center," would leave me with more than a little free time. And yes, I wondered if I'd be safe.

Look - along with that learned fear about the "Dark Continent" (a measure of which, I admit existed) - I'm a 54 year-old look-alike for an "in-shape" woman, who's been smoking since age 12 - with no desire to be "locked up abroad" for carrying an illegal weapon!  Hell, if I ever had to run for my life, I'd be a dead somebody! So yeah, I thought it was more than reasonable to wonder about that.

But anxiety slowly turned to determination when I got my new phone on Nov. 18th.  I called Crystal back and she walked me through the features.  But still no passport - which meant, still no visa.  On Nov. 23rd at 10:30 a.m., I got an email from the State Department saying they'd finished processing the passport and it had been printed.  Since I paid to have it expedited they said, "You should receive it on or about Nov. 25th!  Still blindly hopeful, I kept my 3 p.m., shot appointment.

The doctor was a pleasant enough young lady with an Italian-sounding name.  We talked about where I was going, and why.  Then she told me - I had to get five shots!  She called her assistant in to do the deed and said she'd be back to go over how I should take the Malaron (to combat malaria), the Cipro (in case I got a bacterial infection cuz I forgot and drank the local water) and the Imodium (to stop the resultant diarrhea - from drinking the local water) for which she'd be writing me prescriptions.  She said I needed to start the Malaron and have the yellow fever in my system for at least 10 days before I left.  I said, "Well that can't happen - I'm leaving on Nov. 29th!"

She said, just a little too forcefully for my taste - "You're not going to Europe!  You're going to a Third World country!!" . Without missing a beat, I said, "I guess there's no chance of me getting any of these things in Europe right"  And then just as quickly I asked, "Have you ever even been to Africa?"

She gave me a weird look and dead-panned, "Well, you have a bigger chance of catching them over there that's for sure.  And no, I've never been to Africa.  Have a good trip."  With my biggest shit-eatin' grin, I said, "Oh I'm sure I will - even though it's a Third World country!" - and left.

Whether it was true or not, her Europe vs. Third World comment annoyed me.  But I knew I shouldn't play with the 10-day thing - so I surrendered.  Besides, there was no way I'd be able to get the visa and make that Nov. 29th flight.  When I got home, I changed my departure date to Dec. 4th.  Yeah, it took a little extra from the budget, but I'd gone this far already.  I couldn't quit now!

To be continued - A "Homegoing" - Part 2 (b):  "Getting there" lessons

A "Home-going" - Part 1: Why I went to The Gambia

When most people talk about a "home-going" - they're talking about a death and a burial.  And in a sense, so am I, though not of a corporal kind.

My recent "home-going," involved the death and burial of a way of thinking about Africa - shared, I know, by many Blacks in America.  Since the beginning of our existence in this country up to this day, we've been taught to see Africa as the swollen-bellied, uncivilized "Dark Continent," unable to govern its people, or solve its own problems without the all-knowing, allegedly benevolent hand of the "civilized" West firmly on the wheel.

"I have said that the Civilized have never been able to honor, recognize, or describe the Savage. Once they had decided that he was savage, there was nothing to honor, recognize or describe."

James Baldwin

Mr. Baldwin succinctly encapsulates the deeply embedded mantra of white supremacy which is, and has been, the reason for the steady diet of disinformation, misinformation and miseducation we've been fed about Africa by our stellar education system, the mainstream media, our perfectly run government - and our health care system.

In just two sentences, he clearly explains, that which continues to give this supposed, "civilized" society, the conscience-free license to kill, experiment upon, imprison, and otherwise keep their foot on the necks of other human beings who are also, as Baldwin, never fails to point out - their "fellow countrymen."

Reading (a lot of Baldwin!), listening and interacting with others outside my familiar, has definitely made me a better critical thinker.  I know that my mind is no longer completely inculcated with the double-talk of western superiority in general, and "American Exceptionalism" - in particular.  But, what I also know is - I still have a whole lot more learning to do.  Yet sometimes, all of that constant peeling back of layers becomes a little overwhelming, especially as more layers are constantly being added (like "Selection 2008!").

And by November 2010 - I was not only overwhelmed, I was tired.

Tired - of all the political gamesmanship continuing to discount real people's lives in favor of corporate "persons;" tired of all the craziness in defense of "American exceptionalism" - through decidedly crazy, and unexceptional acts; tired of mainstream media parrots pundits, informing and enlightening less, while promoting themselves more; tired of all things Changeling, to be sure; and particularly tired, of watching my kinfolk, seemingly so ashamed of who we are in our entirety, trippin' all over themselves to embrace the hegemony of the "exceptionalists" just because we've got some "skinfolk" in the Burning House.

So, right after seeing "For Colored Girls" (YES, the rash of ignoble commentary surrounding Perry's film also made my "tired of" list), I found myself contemplating an escape from the madness for a little while.  I called my friend, Gerald Pinedo in Germany - to see what he was up to, grumble about politics and the Changeling (he's more patient with him than I), and invite myself for a visit since I'd never been to Europe before.  I figured with so many bases dotting the landscape, it was definitely doable from my end - especially if I could get a Space-A flight from the MAC terminal here, and a room at one of the many inexpensive "lodges" the military so graciously provides!
 

A little background

I met Gerald, an artist, sculptor, lecturer and researcher of the slave trade (I know, I've tried to get him to let me update that woefully out-of-date site!), through a mutual friend in December 2001.  After one of his research trips to Cuba, he'd come to Key West to prepare for his Black History Month exhibition at the San Carlos in 2002.  I wanted to interview him for one of my weekly columns.

He, my then-71 year old Jewish friend, Rhoda and I - had many a lively,late-night discussion about why Blacks and Cubans in America were not aware of their true roots.  He was amazed, that when he asked the question - "Where are you from?" - during several interviews he'd conducted locally, the answers never involved any African roots.  What he'd found for the most part, were Cubans, and Blacks who claimed the Bahamas as their place of origin (as many in Key West do) - who seemed to have totally discounted the fact that African slaves were brought to, or through, those islands during the slave trade - and us, who had no clue whatsoever, where our true roots lay.

I offered that the question holds a totally different meaning - at least for Blacks in America. His reply was an immediate, "Why should it?"

We met again in 2003 during a series of events hosted by the Mel Fisher Maritime Heritage Society, which included a Jan. 7 - 16 port visit by the newly commissioned, Freedom Schooner Amistad (the Amistad case was argued and won by former president, John Quincey Adams - after he'd left the White House). 

I'd run into Corey Malcom and Lisa Petrone at Goombay in October 2002.  They told me they'd heard about the "Dialogues on Race" I'd been having around town and up the Keys, and thought it'd be a great addition to the planned schedule of events - if I was interested.  Of course I was!  "Legacy of the Amistad: A Conversation" became a means to openly and honestly discuss race in America on a much larger scale than I'd ever been used to.

Gerald was back in Key West to give an encore of his own exhibit featuring an abundance of original documents and artifacts from the slave trade, along with his own paintings and sculpture.  Since he was staying through Black History Month, the husband and I got to learn and see, so much more than either of us had ever been exposed to before.

Back to the future 

During the phone call, Gerald said he wouldn't be in Germany for awhile.  He was leaving for The Gambia in November to continue working on his "Center" for the African diaspora that he'd begun almost five years ago. He'd bought the land, the building was up, and he had to go pay the land taxes and oversee the installation of tile, plumbing and windows.

I was at once, excited and crestfallen.  Excited because it seemed he was finally going to see his life's work come to fruition (and trust me, it HAS been his life's work!).  Crestfallen, because I'd be stuck among the "exceptionalists" - still (What? It's not like I lied to him about why I wanted to come over there!). I asked him when he'd be back, and he said in a few months or so. Sighing (because I knew it'd be at least four more months away) I said, "Well, maybe when the husband gets back, we'll both come and hangout with you for awhile. He'll have plenty leave!"

All of a sudden he said excitedly, "You should come there!!  Have you ever been??" 

I told him that I hadn't, but had always wanted to go - especially after I'd stumbled upon information linking the Gullah language and culture of my Sea Island relatives and ancestors, to West Africa (probably Sierra Leone, Senegal or - The Gambia).

I realized my words were coming faster and with more animation as I told him, "I know slaves from these three places were brought, across the Middle Passage - directly to the Sea Islands - not only because of the mirror-imaged, climate conditions of West Africa - but because of their superior skills in cultivating rice - a very profitable cash crop for the mostly Charleston-dwelling masters!"  (And yes, I love me some rice!)

We were both completely excited now.  Then, in his thick German accent, he said,  "De-bo-rah!  Every Black American should go home at least once in their lives!"

It hit me in the head like one of those old V-8 commercials!  And as I thought about his suggestion (for a hot minute),  I couldn't ignore the rising in my head, of Brother Malcolm's searing questions - asked, some 50 years ago:



And I said,  "You know Gerald, you're absolutely right!  Then - I went to work...

To be continued - A "Homegoing" - Part 2a:  "Getting there" lessons