The Bags I Didn’t Pack

I cannot tell a lie, since learning the current regime running the United States would take control of all three branches of government, my emotions have been in freefall. I swing wildly between 

anxiety-laced depression: “we’re all going to die,” 

faith-driven calm: “we ‘gon be alright,”

and optimistic hope: “we have the opportunity to create something magical.”

I wish I could say these feelings were spread out over time. They’re not. I cycle through all three emotions daily; sometimes in the same breath. 

In the #AgeofChaos I know I’m not alone. This knowledge is both comforting and terrifying. On the one hand, it’s not just in my head. This is REAL. On the other, knowing this chaos is real, not just in my head, can sometimes cause me to spiral. And, like so many others, I’ve found myself simply trying to regulate my nervous system. Finding equilibrium is elusive. 

And so, I travel.

View from airplane window of wing above clouds

Looking out the window I felt the familiar calm that comes whenever I see the wing of the plane against a sky full of clouds. I had no idea what to expect on this journey. I only knew I had to get away. 

When my soul needs peace I usually escape to the Caribbean, Africa, or South America. Truth be told, Europe has never been high on my travel list. I figured when I did go back to Europe it would be Spain, Greece, or even Iceland to chase the Northern Lights. Not Belgium. Not France. Not the Netherlands.

Europe is stunning. Its history and architecture are rich and haunting. But it’s also, as my dear sister-friend Erin put it, “the land of the OG colonizers.”

While the United States may have perfected enslavement, capitalism, and systemic oppression, Europe created the blueprint. As I packed I couldn't help but reflect on Europe’s history of colonization and exploitation. 

When preparing for a trip there's the physical luggage we pack, and then there’s the emotional baggage we carry. This trip forced me to reckon with both.

From the airport in Brussels; to the train station in Paris; to the bus station in Amsterdam, I was stopped by men from different African countries. Each interaction I was invariably asked:

“Where are you from?”

My response: “The United States.”

They’d look at me as if I was confused, then offer their own guesses:

Cameroon, Uganda, Ghana, Benin? Anywhere and everywhere except the United States.

Here’s an excerpt from a conversation with a man I met in Amsterdam:

Him: “Where are you from?”

Me: “The United States.”

He paused, then spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child.

Him: “No. Let me explain. I was born in Amsterdam, but I’m from Ghana. You were born in the United States. Where are your people from?”

Me: “Slavery.” 🤷🏿‍♀️

It lands like a joke. But it’s not. I don’t know where my people are from.

“Do not accept packages or items from anyone you do not know. You are responsible for everything you bring onboard.”

In every airport I passed through, I heard this same security announcement in multiple languages. The words stayed with me. I began to wonder, what happens when the bags you carry aren’t yours, and  you still have to carry them?

I carry the bags of ancestors who were stolen from their homes. 

Who toiled land and did not profit. 

Who raised children who were not theirs. 

Who lost land, wealth, and life without a second glance. 

Who, after generations of being in this country, are still qualifier-Americans told to “get over it.” 

Yet they also gave me joy and deep, belly shaking laughter.

Perseverance, brilliance, and the skill to “take what they had and make what they wanted.”

My ancestors dreamed and manifested me as their future. 

I carry their pain and their joy. Can I refuse these items? Am I really responsible for carrying the weight of history that spans continents, oceans, space, and time? 

In order to design a new future grounded in new ways of being, thinking, and knowing, is it time for me to unpack the bags I’ve been given to carry? Do I have the ability to pick and choose what to keep and what to leave behind? What would happen if I simply put the bags down, unopened, unchecked? 

But how do I leave the bags, when carrying them is part of who I am? 

Next week: I got lost in Brussels. But sometimes, getting lost is the only way to be found.