Reunion with an old friend

I stopped by in Los Angeles to see a friend; Tyler from University. Tyler is an interesting guy, he's a first generation American with his family from Liberia. Dad moved to the States for work after his mom's passing back home. An event that I can tell affected him and still has but he's never opened up about it. He's closed like that, quick to give advice about personal issues but slow to open up about his.
On campus, all the black students knew each other or at least have known each other through mutual friends. Even in stranger interactions, you give a nice head nod and smile. It's kind of like a "I know we struggling together but we thriving" type of look. I guess that's something that comes out of being an endangered species in higher education.
Tyler however, was not aware of this cultural movement. The very first time I met him was in my Computer Science class. He came in and I gave him the nod and a smile. He then rushes over to me and questions, "Why do people keep doing that?"
Doing what?
"That nod! I don't know you.." he pauses, "Do I?"
No we don't but see you being my brother, I had to say hello. Where are you from?
"Liberia. But I've been in the states for almost 2 years and I've never been taught this."

And that was the beginning of our friendship. Me teaching him the collective call of our race. See, it's understandable why he doesn't know about this. Being raised in Africa, you'll be nodding all day. Then moving to an all white neighborhood in northern LA, it's likely to not have learned the ropes.

So for this reunion of over 3 years, we decided to go to the Beach for the day. Tyler tells me that he's been working with a non-profit that aims to bring STEM education into the majority black schools in Southern California. It's been growing very rapidly in the last two years with a new major contributor in Microsoft. I congratulate him. He's always been one for bringing a more diverse cast of characters into the tech field. Black or African, I observe that we've become more united in our American struggle than our ancestors. I envy him because I haven't gotten to the point where I feel like I can give back.  I got there, I made some money, lost some money, but have done nothing to open the gates for people of color to do the same.
I share this. He offers to bring me onboard, teach me the ropes, even offers to let me live with him until I have enough to buy my own spot there. Such a good friend he is, but, I don't want to cut my fun so short. I still have a nice amount of time before I have to head back to the bay to start thinking about my actual life now.

For now, I'll take my Budweiser and sit on the coast of America, and watch the sun set on the edge of a continent.

A Reminder of Life's Fragility (Week 5)

"What do you mean you've never read Faulkner?" A woman I struck a conversation with in the row across from me was quite startled at discovering this gaping hole in my literary catalog. Wasting no time, she thrust the text As I Lay Dying into my lap, instantly deciding how I would spend the next 5 hours of my trip. Coming into the text with no expectations, I was quickly introduced to the sharp examination this text performs on the coming of death. I instantly thought of my own mother who is aging beautifully but like any other human, will not live forever. Where would she want to be buried? What does the narrative of her life sound like from her death bed? Are there any regrets? Will I have any regrets on mine? And just like that, I thought about a girl that I've been seeing for a long time. We're trying out the east coast for a while and the first destination is Pittsburgh. I really do love her. Should I marry her? Life is short after all. 25 years young soon became 25 years old and the reality of the brevity of being human came back into focus. This is all thanks to a friendly conversation with my neighbor on the bus and an author I have finally read who goes by the name of William Faulkner.

The Warmth of Other Suns - Blog Post

I am in Austin now. Since I am en route to nowhere, I thought there would be no harm in making a stop, this time to explore the city. I was in a rush when passing through Houston. I had a war in my mind I did not want to confront at the time, but now I am at ease to face it – not quite, but exploring the streets by myself set the perfect introspective environment I was hoping for. I wander the streets and avenues, and my Lord! I knew cities are much more populous than towns like mine, but this is far beyond my expectation. Being in person among a multitude is different than seeing a large crowd through television or the window of my speeding car. I had noticed the big-city crowd before, but I hadn’t realized its electric power until this moment; the energy emanated from all the dodging and bumping on pedestrians wouldn’t let me ignore it. This is a whole new world, I thought. There is a lot more to experience in this land than what I could see through my window pane indeed. But the constant flux of people, aggressively walking towards and past me, does not let me forget that this experience is as fascinating as it is overwhelming.

I decided I had to go somewhere calm to focus better on what I had been thinking. After walking for a while, I spot a beautiful cozy park, where I decide to sit down by a water fountain. Alone with my thoughts, I started confronting my insecurities about this crazy idea of getting away to nowhere. I was unhappy in my hometown. I love my family, and I know they love me, but I do not think they understand me or what I have been going through. I do not belong in that place and there is not where I want to spend my life. At the same time, I cannot help feeling like I acted selfishly. Mother has worked her entire life to ensure that my sister and I had the best she could offer, yet I ran away without saying a proper goodbye, knowing that they would struggle with my sudden absence. Was I being ungrateful? Mom would say yes, I thought. I am almost convincing myself I made a terrible mistake. I could not deal with all these emotions, so I left and started wandering again to block those depressing thoughts from my mind.

About two blocks further I was approached by this old lady, very dark-skinned, hair as white as the clouds in a sunny day. At first, I did not understand a word she said because I was too distracted by my thoughts, but once I noticed her I was mesmerized by her looks. I come from a small town in Texas where the population is completely white. The only black person I have ever met was this boy in middle school who stayed with us for a week but dropped because of continuous harassment by the other white kids who did not accept a black in the same space as them. I just stood there admiring how young she looked for someone of her age. She asked me to help her walking towards her friend’s place, which was about four streets away. She looked somehow familiar, so I promptly accepted it because I needed that. For twenty minutes, I drifted away from my problems and listened to her telling me events of her life. Her name was Ida Mae, and she had fled to Southside Chicago during the 20’s with her children in the search for a better life. During that time, people like her did not have many goals in life where she lived. I learned that she used to work at her parents’ cotton farm and I immediately felt connected to her path, after all, I too had fled from my parents’ home because I did not envision milking cows as the future for me. I asked her if she had ever regretted leaving her family behind, especially her mother who remained alone after she left. Ida Mae had regrets, of course, as every other human. But she was sure she had to live her life and not others’ expectations of how her life should be. It sure hurt to leave her mom, but it would hurt even more to live somewhere where she could never find happiness. She did not even know, but her words were lifting me up and helping me get rid of some of the weight on my shoulders. I wanted to keep talking to her, know more about her, her life, her struggles, but when I realized we were already at her destination. She kissed me warmly on my forehead in appreciation for my help, and it felt like I was with family. I was refreshed and never felt readier in the past days to continue this journey. I am decided to make this my own epic quest.

Week 5

I board a train headed north this time, and as there is no one near me to talk to and as I am tired from my time in Eustis, I begin to doze. I wake up to a low jingling sound, like keys being tossed back and forth. I turn around, and see two police officers escorting a chained man through the aisles. They all sit together a few rows behind me. I didn't know that they escorted prisoners on passenger trains like this. I wonder what his crime was; it couldn't have been murder, or they wouldn't have let him on the train, but he must have done something significant, or they wouldn't be transporting him at all.

I get up and walk to the washroom at the back, slowly, so that I can get a look at the new guest aboard our train. He is handsome, but his face and clothes are dirty. I suppose they must not care too much for the cleanliness of prisoners. As I return from the washroom, all of a sudden this man bursts into laughter as I pass his row. He begins to thrash about, but doesn't look as though he is escaping. One of the officers looks to me and apologizes for the "madman" in the train. All of a sudden he stops, and stares out the window. Another train is passing us in the opposite direction. I'm not quite sure what he is looking at in the blur of that train, but once it is gone he looks away and mutters.

"What is that?" the officer asks. The man mutters again. "What?"

The man bursts out laughing, and after about two minutes of this he has quieted down and closed his eyes. I sit down in my seat, and close mine, slipping into a fitful sleep to the tune of mad laughter.

Week 6

[MARGARET]: A fool would have been able to tell something wasn't right from a mile away. A girl, aged no more than twenty, creeping through the night with a little boy in hand, constantly peering over her shoulder? I just knew from her disposition that something was awry.

[DETECTIVE]: Around what time did you witness the aforementioned incident?

[M]: Why, I was just returning to my carriage from a theatre performance downtown. I'd reckon it was nearly midnight by the time that I saw the pair slinking through the cobblestones.

[D]: Could you describe both the boy and the young woman's actions a bit more to me, ma'am, and the events that led you to follow them?

[M]: Yes. The girl was tall and had hair like straw. She was plain and had large, nervous eyes that darted back and forth in her skull as if she were nervous, like a bird or something. She carried a bundle in one arm and the hand of the boy in the other, and she kept glancing down at her stomach and her hands and all around, a bit crazy like. The boy was no older than seven or eight, and he was all tucked up in his Sunday best. He was muttering to himself and dragging the girl toward a toy train in one of the shop windows when I decided to follow along to see where they were going. Curiosity got the best of me.

[D]: And where did they go?

[M]: I followed them up to the pharmacy, which was obviously closed as it was the middle of the night. I peered from behind the brick wall at the corner, and watched the boy sit on the sidewalk and the girl creep inside after checking behind her.

[D]: And then what happened?

[M]: I waited for a moment, and decided to investigate further. I know I should have called a professional, but I just couldn't imagine letting something happen where I could intervene---

[D]: Just the facts please, ma'am. We'll hear the rest of your testimony later. Right now we're focused on gathering evidence.

[M]: Of course, I -- I understand. Well, after that I crept up to the glass siding and got down real low and peered from behind the scales. The girl wearily approached the counter and a man whom I've never seen offer medicine sauntered out from the backroom which was lit by a single candle. He proffered a small, black box, and after a brief bit of conversation, took the girl into the back with him. [looking away, a tear welling in her eyes] And that's when I heard her scream.

[D]: About how long would you say was the period between the girl being taken behind the counter and her yell, ma'am.

[M]: Oh my, I, I couldn't say. It was all happening so fast, uh, maybe thirty or forty seconds? A minute perhaps, but certainly not more.

[D]: And what was the content of this scream?

[M]: It was muffled and brief, but resoundingly clear. I had heard a scream like that once in my life. The kind of ear-splitting shriek of someone agonizing but not being able to express it fully. It was a shriek between life and death and neither. And my body just turned to ice.

[D]: Could you outline the final events that you witnessed? [making several circles on his notebook] 

[M]: Why, yes. I kept crouching and waiting for the girl to return, but for what seemed like hours on end she didn't. Why, even a cow came to the square and mawed at the boy before she resurfaced. And when she did come, her hair was a mess, and she had lost her bundle that she entered with. She walked briskly out, murmuring to herself and dragging the little boy with only her black box in her hands.

[D]: Do you have any other information you feel might be pertinent in this report, ma'am?

[M]: Hm...Just that my niece, Simone, told me of this place and the horrors that go on here. I don't mean to make this issue out to be more than it is, but with the alcohol and the vice, the sexual perversion and the prostitution, not to mention the --

[D]: Any final details of the case, ma'am?

[M]: Well no, I suppose thats all I saw. Them walking along their way, quickly, just as they had come. You can never know, it begins younger and younger in this godforesaken country...

Chicago Diner

I walked into the local dinner upon arrival. Although not Rhonda’s, all diners filled me with a sense of belonging.

I ordered a black coffee and observed the young woman who brought it over. She had a long dark braid running down her back and poured the coffee in a fluid motion almost like a dance. I saw the steam creeping out the top so I fell back into the cushion of the booth. I felt the character of the diner through the words etched into the side of the booth. I began tracing them with my finger when the bell chimed for the door.

As soon as they walked in, I felt a tension. The man leading the way wore denim jacket and pants and held his hand close to his pocket. His dark features met in a scowl, and his confidence seemed to make him larger than he actually was.

Behind him was a girl. Her nose was bridged with freckles, and her light face seemed hollow as it stared ahead. There was a loss of innocence in the way she folded her arms like a shield across her chest. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old although the man in front couldn’t have been younger than 25.

The man went to the counter and began rambling about how their car broke down on the way to see their family. He insisted on a free meal while they wait for the car repair since the auto man had his wallet. The girl continued to stare into the distance at an undefined point.

The waitress with the braid surveyed their faces for signs of truth, and finding none she pointed at the sign resting on the counter that read “Paying Customers Only.” Her eyes searched the young girl's face waiting for a plea of help, but the girl gave none.

After a moment of pause, the man grabbed the girl by the wrist and they left as quickly as they appeared.

I inched closer to the window and watched them get into a Ford Mustang and drive away.

My anger overpowered the coffee as it scorched the back of my throat.

Week 5

Dear Darl,

First of all: I am so sorry to hear about your mother’s passing. I hope you have a safe trip to Jefferson, and my thoughts are with you and your family.

Second, I received your letter about your trip into town, and was struck by your description of your vision. I don’t know what it is about being on the road, but I have to think that your ability to know what was happening at home is connected to the transience of travel. There is something almost meditative about the long hours of nothingness, of being between two places more than being any one place in particular. I think that if it is possible to see beyond, it will almost always happen while traveling.

I had an experience like that while driving home from California. It wasn’t quite so dramatic – but still, I was imagining what might be happening at home, and it began to feel so real that it scared me. I truly didn’t know if what I was seeing was true or not. It must have been fascinating – albeit sad – to return home and know for certain that what you’d seen had really happened.

Again, thank you for your letter, I am sorry to hear about your mother, and safe travels for the burial.

Much love,

Nora Hegarty

Christina Boyer's Post Week 4

I arrived in Chicago just as the sun was setting across the water of lake Michigan. The few remaining autumn leaves were clinging to their sagging branches, as the winter winds slowly whirled up around the trees, tempting the remaining leaves to join the wind dance.

It was cold but I was content to sit outside for a few minutes longer. While Chicago was not my final destination, the relief I felt at my arrival was unexpected but all consuming. I was content to watch the passersby slowly disperse, as Millennium Park breathed a sign of relief with the ending of another busy day.

The dusk muted the colors around me and I allowed myself to refocus. I looked down at my grubby hands and slowly turned one over the other. My hands were unrecognizable – dirt caked under my nails, dust settled in the lines of my palms. Across my left hand the deep scar looked worse than ever, a jumble of dust and dirt and scarred tissue slashed messily across my pale skin. I remember when I’d hurt it and remembered how I’d cried just as if I was a little boy again.

I suddenly became acutely aware of the presence next to me, a black man of unimposing stature who was regarding my hands with the same curiosity as myself. He was old and I wondered what stories were behind the deep lines across his forehead. He held his hand out in front of us, displaying a scar far deeper and far darker than my own.

“Got this one when I was 17” he said in a gruff but gentle voice. “Sliced my finger when I was out cutting spinach down in Mississippi, and damn it bled for days.”

I didn’t know why my voice had gone hollow but it had, and I didn’t say anything.

I looked down at my own scar, and thought maybe me and this stranger weren’t all that different. 

Week 4

Hours had past. Or, so it felt. I peered out the window and attempted to count the seemingly infinite objects strewn alongside the highway. The monotony of the activity induced a sleepy-stupor.

Bang! The bus rumbled over potholes in the highway, driving my head repeatedly into the glass window. My hand pressed firmly to my now throbbing forehead. I squinted, as the excessive glare of the sun reflected from the burning asphalt. Oh, the woes of a nomadic life.

Several rows in front, another traveler scrambled to retrieve the books that had fallen from her bus seat. I was quick to notice a rather large book she gripped tightly as she organized her collection. While her hand steadied the stack, her eyes resumed reading. I moved to her row to inquire about the book.

“What are you reading?” I asked. Captivated by the seemingly two-ton book, she didn’t respond. I leaned forward to tap her shoulder. Naturally, I startled her. I hadn’t showered in days. My hair was greasy, my clothing wrinkled, my voice hoarse, and my face weather-beaten.  

Our conversation was brief. However, I found myself equally intrigued by her synopsis of The Warmth of Other Suns. “It’s a series of narratives…a detailed account of the Great Migration from the migrant’s own perspective. From World War I until the early 1970s, black people moved to cities of the urban North and West to escape a region replete with Jim Crow laws and race-based violence,” she responded. It seemed the Great Migration was more than a demographic shift, but an action of then-unparalleled collective black agency.

I was on one of the dominant migratory routes. While I recognized that my motivation was rather different, I would not breath freely until I had arrived.