Since Vanna and I returned in mid-August, I’ve struggled with the idea of finishing this blog. I have felt stretched in opposing directions— pulled by the fingers of one hand towards the keys of my laptop to regurgitate the rest of my summer memories into a digital bank of my own words, while my other hand is busy grasping where I’m at right now, coping with the reality of being home.
There is a large part of me that feels like I have a duty to my friends and family who offered me endless love, guidance and support throughout the most spectacular adventure of my life. They deserve to know what I did with the power they gave me to find my own way. And of course, I do think it’s important to finish what I’ve started. I would like to be the type of person who consistently follows things through to their end. So—
I made a point of touring a handful of historical churches in the South. There is so much that I can’t explain about how it felt to be a Jewish Black girl, sitting in the first “official” church owned by slaves in Savannah Georgia, tracing the Hebrew and Arabic markings written on the original pews by men and women escaping to their anticipated freedom on the Underground Railroad. The acknowledgment that there is a difference between being a Black Jew and being a Black woman who is Jewish awakened a part of my consciousness that I had never explored.
In the Dexter St. King Memorial Baptist Church in Montgomery, AL I held hands in a circle with 50 other visitors, most of them a part of a gloriously jubilant family reunion, singing “This Little Light of Mine”. While I was in Montgomery, I visited the Peace and Freedom Memorial. Metal columns with names engraved deep into their rain-rusted surfaces memorializing known victims of lynchings hung from the ceiling. I searched meticulously through the looming lists, organized by state, for names I might recognize from conversations with my father. I noticed that mine were not the only eyes drawn upwards. Most of us visitors had our necks craned into the sky, resisting the ache in our spines as we descended deeper into the memorial. We all seemed to be searching for something in there.
A thick grayness hung above Vanna and I as we traveled backwards along the historic Selma to Montgomery route. Selma felt like a ghost town. Most of the business were either shut down or closed for the day and nobody was out walking on the street. I stepped onto the old cobblestone road just as the rain broke over head. The sudden downpour drenched my sundress, making me grateful for the two braids I’d woven tightly against my scalp the night before in an attempt to ward off frizz. I quickly returned to Vanna and changed my shoes, keeping in mind that skin is basically waterproof; compared to socks, at least.
As I walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge, my flip flops squelching in shallow pools of water, I tried to imagine what it would have felt like to march with Dr. King. Rain dripped off of my eyelashes and into my eyes; I closed them. Every step I took felt like a strenuous push against the concept of time and as fat droplets hit my face, I felt suddenly dizzied by the realization that history can mean “just yesterday”.
When I close my eyes and think about this Summer, it feels like “just yesterday”.
I will continue this blog. I will continue this story. Step by step.
Thank you for being patient.
**Photo taken in Great Smoky Mountains National Park
Wandering Woman 