When I learn about history, I see myself standing in Ghana with the bloody Atlantic washing at the backs of my feet, looking ahead at the white castles where my ancestors must have been taken. When I visit the castles, what will I feel? Guilt or grief? Vanilla or chocolate? Vanilla or chocolate? Since I have never met my black father or traced back that side of my history, are my roots forever snipped? Can I claim this story as my own? If I come from a white family that is comfortably middle class, does that mean I have white privilege? What if my ancestors owned slaves? Is this what race means? Having questions without any right answers and asking them anyway?
I am addicted to the ocean and though Grammy said to come back from my walk before dark, after the sun sets right before our eyes and the only lights left are those twinkling condos in the west and iphone flashlights, I will my ankles to move but they remain grounded in the sand. You can see the whole sky out here, almost the entire earth in all directions. This is how it was supposed to be, I think. I stand in the ocean and let its moody waters cleanse me. Walk Between Worlds by Simple Minds and Forward by K. Michelle massage my heart. I want to believe that God is here in the vastness. Something created this, all of it, and put me here to witness the great becoming and unbecoming of the blue, how the waves claim their individuality for a second before dissolving into their universe. I want to believe that the ocean is a part of me too. I want to bottle up this security, this eternity, this faith that there is a reason why I am exactly where I am right now, and take it with me to the city.