Note: I am not smiling. This is my resting nice face. My, I am uncomfortable and don’t like it face.
I was cruising along, jamin’ out to Taylor Swift. With the road to myself and blue skies, my mind wandered back to the open road of the Autobahn, hair being whipped around by the wind in my German, drop-top, out pacing other little sports cars…you know the type… the loud ones with horses on the hood. Just as I imagined giving my big American smile as I passed a grumpy face Swabbish German, I was brought back to reality when I saw police car driving the other direction on the highway. I immediately checked my speedometer, sighed with the relief that I hadn’t hit 100 and pulled over to the side. Homeboy didn’t even have to flash his lights. I knew I was caught. And although, being 20 minutes from my Kentucky home and a policeman’s daughter, I probably could have sweet talked my way out of this one I knew I was deserving of a ticket. My dad even encouraged a name drop. I didn’t. Besides, I actually caught a break. He could have written me up for a higher speed but showed mercy. The whole encounter took about 10 minutes and I was back on the road. Having to pay a $216 for 80 in a 70 still made me bummed for several miles. Then I remembered the great deal I got that saved me $600 on my rental car. My budget was made more flexible with the savings. So even with the ticket, I was within my travel budget. Then I wasn’t bummed any more. Welcome home to America where speed limits are strictly enforced. No more 150 on the Autobahn.
Fast forward 50 hours.
I’m cruising along with a group of at least eight cars in both driving lanes in Texas. A police car appears. Even though his lights aren’t flashing cars start moving over into the right lane. Well, since I’m not passing, I wait for an opening, made available after a semi truck (or lory as the Brits call them) exited to move over to the right lane. The police drives my the side even with the side of my car then falls back…right behind me. I thought it was odd until the police car exited the freeway. I shrugged it off. Plausible explanation…he just wanted to exit. But then, at the very next entrance ramp, the police car reappears back behind me! Now I’m thinking this is odd. Then I’m even more confused when his lights turn on behind me. I pull over wondering why I was stopped. The cop comes over to my passenger side asks for license and registration. I had over the rental car’s registration and my license. Under my diva shades my eyebrows are raised waiting to learn why I was pulled over. “You were going a little fast back there,” the police who doesn’t appear to be much older than me says. “How fast is a little fast,” I asked. “A little fast,” he responds back and takes my info to his car. Out of the pack of cars, I was in the back and the slowest of the bunch, yet I was the one pulled over…for going “a little fast.” Seemed weird, weird, weird. And he wouldn’t give me a satisfactory answer as to how fast or why I was pulled over. I took to Facebook to ask the masses if I was just profiled and to document.
Now, to say I’ve been pulled over before would be an understatement. Call me Ricky Bobby ‘cus I like to go fast. I’ve never denied any instance prior to this time was justified. This cop’s driving practice on the highway was sketchy. Had any other driver pulled up to the side of me, then slipped behind me to follow, exited the freeway only to get right back on behind me at the next entrance ramp, I would have called the police on them. But how can you call the police on the police? Then not giving me a specific speed even after asking seemed off. Plus I was calling shenanigans on going “a little too fast.” No way! After my $216 fine I had been contentiously on cruise control. Besides, I was moving with the flow of traffic. Cars ahead of me, behind me, and to the side of me all going a steady pace. I’m pretty confident the common practice on the highway is to cruise at 9 or 10 mph over the speed limit. In fact, from a chart my dad showed me back in high school, the fines don’t even start ’til you hit 10 mph over the limit. From my perspective, I was pulled over for no reason and dude was up to something.
When he returned he asked if I was in a rental. I said it was. He asked where I started my trip. Well, this was a difficult question. Technically my trip started in the Middle East (Southwest Asia). I flew into Baltimore. Went to Alabama, met a friend in Chattanooga, flew to Maine and was road tripping the US. I told him Shreveport this morning but overall in Maine. A bit of over sharing but I was quite proud and excited about this adventure. He asked where I was going. I told him California. That’s when the conversation started going south. “Where are you headed and where are you coming from” are standard police pull over convo. So is “Why are you in a rush?” But the questions kept coming. He asked if I still lived at the address on my card. I explained it was my parents address then I let it be known that I was in the military hoping it would help explain my nomadic movements. It’s summertime, it’s PCS (Permanent Change of Station) season, vacation season, going to college season. He asked for my mil ID and ask what I did for the military. No one ever understands what I do so I kept it 6th grade level. I work with computers. I explained.
He asked why I was taking highway 30 instead of some other one that I didn’t recognize. Since I was fallowing a GPS I really wasn’t aware of all the other highway options or names of highways. I shrug but I’m still wondering why I was the car pulled over out of the pack for going “A little fast” when I didn’t believe I was and really confused why I’m getting the slew of questions. Why does this dude seem suspicious of little ol’ me. Every other police has issued a citation or sent me on my way with a verbal warning. Sometime during the exchange I have my dad on the phone to listen to this random line of questioning. He was aggressively asking questions and I was answering with suspicion. He mentioned that I added two days on to my trip by taking that route. I shrugged. Not seeing the problem here. “Why,” he demanded. Why not, I thought. Speed isn’t my objective. But answered “Because it’s fun.” He repeated my statement back to me. He apparently didn’t like it. This guy can’t answer why he pulled me over but asks me about 20 questions. I’m not sure if he cannot hear or if he’s intentionally being rude but he keeps raising his voice and saying, “What!?” He’s from the south. there’s no reason I cannot get an “excuse me ma’am?” if he cannot hear or understand. He left. The last time I was asked random questions by a strange man, the guy “coincidentally” showed up at my work. And started calling me at work. He was a man in uniform also. Then police came back, this time on the drivers side, knocks on the window and told me to step out of the car.
As a girl who has been pulled over in dang near every state south of the Mason-Dixon line for one reason or another, this was absolutely abnormal. So I ponder if I should dial 911 for help and verification or my dad. I wind up back on the phone with my dad to see if this was within the realm normal procedures. Dad tells me to comply. But now all that I’m thinking of is the 2004 movie, Crash where a black woman is sexually assaulted by a cop after being asked to step out of the car for no reason.
Since my road trip began 18-year-old Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri was shop and killed by police. Eric Garner was placed in a choke hold until he died after he broke up a fight. Then there was the NYC breastfeeding death hoax that so many believed to be plausible. I have the memories of Edmund Perry, Cary Ball jr., Robert Cameron Redus, Kimwni Gray, kendrec McDade, Timothy Stansbury, Jr., Victor Steen, and Oscar Grant. I recall a black female honor student in the 90s being killed by police.
On top of the statistic that a black person is killed by police every 28 hours in America, all my parent’s safety warnings start racing through my mind. I am a woman, traveling solo being forced by a male in a position of authority, with a gun, to get out of the safety of my vehicle. I’m thinking I’m going to get gunned down on the side of a Texas highway. Or sexually assaulted in some way. And then the police will say I, the intimidating, 5 foot 4 and a quarter inch angry black woman, provoked it. I, of course, will be dead and unable to give my account. It was then that I was relieved I was wearing capris instead of my usual summer sundress. These britches weren’t coming off without a struggle. People who only met me in passing will be quick to give the media character witness accounts that I’m so respectful of authority and nice, and sweet, and not aggressive. I thought of the headlines, “Air Force Officer killed by police on the way to teach at university” or “Police’s Daughter Shot by Police.” “Officer returns from a year deployment to be gunned down by cops in Texas.” OMG Why am I out of my vehicle!?
The officer asks if he can search my car. I say no. Pretty sure the Red Coats started a war by violating colonists with unwarranted search and seizure. Patriots died 200 years ago so I wouldn’t have to endure what they endured. Or at least that’s what I learned on my road trip while visiting Boston. Why on Earth am I gunna let some random dude raffle through my personal belongings? He says fine, he’ll call the K-9 unit. So really it was an ultimatum. Let me search your car or I’m calling dogs to search anyway. Like the Salem Witch Hunts: Admit that you are a witch so we can burn you at the stake or we are going to tie you up then throw you in a river to see if you sink. I’d just visited the historic site of the massacres a week ago. He thinks I do drugs!?! Me!! Someone who has never done drugs of any sort in my life. And so we wait. I’m standing between my car and his in shock and offended the guy thinks I have drugs! Then I consider that he could plant drugs on me just like in the news! And I’m going to lose my job and future employment prospects. And I call my dad back. I think the two of them should talk. I encourage the police to read this blog if he needed proof or explanation to why I was driving this route. He disgustedly says he doesn’t want to read my blog or talk to my daddy because he’s talking to me. Now I just think he is rude and mean and I start documenting via Facebook. If I’m left dead on the side of the road my family and friends will need information on where I am and the police car’s plate. He sees this happening.
The fella gets out of the car again to tell me that all the information I’ll need will be on the warning he is going to give me. I ask if his supervisor’s contact info is on it. He gives me the number to a fella named Mike that I take down in my phone. The sounds of the highway are much too loud for me to start another phone call. I mean I could hardly hear my dad. The dogs take forever to come. The police starts talking to me like a normal person.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit weird for a single woman to take this route to get to California. You just added two days to your trip”. He keeps emphasizing this for some reason. Well actually I don’t think it’s weird. Military people travel all the time and sometimes those military members are women. The military doesn’t issue us travel companions. People in my social circles take cross country road trips all the time. Kate and Suze both, at separate times, drove from Georgia to Colorado. Katie took a cross-country road journey from California to DC. “Bacon” just took a similar route from Alabama to Nevada. When I lived in Europe I went to the Czech Republic from Stuttgart, Germany by going through Switzerland, Belgium, and Poland. Yes, it did add seven days to what could have been a four hour drive. I could make lists for days of all the military people who travel cross country. As for the route…what difference does it make? Why would I ever consider what a cop in Texas would consider odd when making my route? Maybe if I was living in Germany in the late 1930s or in Texas in the 1960s when the movements of certain peoples were restricted, but today? Why is it suspicious that an American is traveling in her own country!?
The whole trailing me, then getting off the highway, then back on was out of the norm. Not saying how fast I was clocked when asked was out of the norm. Asking me a lot of random, suspicious, accusatory questions but not answering me when I asked how fast I was going was out of the norm. Telling me to get out of the car was out of the norm.
We both calm down a bit after we both get some understanding as to why I’m suspicious of him and he is suspicious of me. The police’s perspective, drug cartels use women in rental cars to move drugs from the Mexican boarder to clear across the country. And I was coming from Maine with lots of luggage. He says I’m nervous, face twitching, hands shaking. And that’s not normal for people not doing wrong. It is normal for me when I’m amidst a confrontation. Happens when I think I’m going to be raped or killed or kidnapped. He said people carrying drugs don’t drive fast. They try to blend in, drive the speed limit, hands at 10 and 2. He says he pulls people over and has them step out of the car all day every day. It’s not weird for him. I explain yes, if they are going 20 over. I think, why on Earth would drug runners use black women knowing they are more likely to get pulled and searched?
It’s then that he says I was clocked at 69 in a 65. Four MPH over the speed limit! Four! All this for four extra miles traveled in an hour more than I was supposed to. What is out of the norm is to be pulled over for going 4 mph over the speed limit. Who has time to pull over every car going 4mph over?! If I were in shape, it would take me all of 23 minutes to run that distance. Were talking about a 5.5K over the allotted amount of kilometers traveled in an hour. Jay-Z freakin’ wrote a song about this!!!
I have a shared experience with Jay-Z?!? Say what!? Now, I have lived dang near every Taylor Swift song. Like Taylor, I sat in class next to redheaded girl with a three-syllable name when I was 15 who was my best friend and laughed at other girls who thought they were so cool. I have a boy that wouldn’t let me drive is stupid ol’ S-10. I have a couple folks I’d like to dedicate “Mean” to (here’s you patherette squad). And Twenty Two is just as valid at 28 — it’s my “happy, free, confused in the best way” anthem. But a hip hop song? I usually like the doing the hand movements to the catchy beat but I cannot identify with most experiences in rap songs…until now. In 99 Problems Jay-Z knew a warrant was needed. The police held him until dogs came, just like me. But he was a legit drug dealer. Here I am an over-educated Air Force Officer trying to get to her next duty station after a year deployment and I’m in the same situation. I try to hide that I feel that this is all ridiculous.
In the police car watching dogs sniff my rental
He asks if I’d like to sit in his car out of the heat. I do. And we talk. He said he’s just doing his job. He does drug interdiction, not regular city police patrol. The highway we’re on is used to run drugs to the border all the time. He says he thought the military usually flies its members and that I could have gotten in trouble and kicked out the military but retained the ID. (Then why ask for the ID if it wasn’t proof enough). The tone has changed. I get the sense he’s just a regular guy wanting to get home to his sweetheart and babies. But he is preventing me from reaching my best friend’s house whom I haven’t seen in three years and her baby that was born while I was living overseas. He asks why the storage trunk in my back seat had a lock on it. I explained because I shipped it in the mail from overseas. The others had been at my parent’s house. We talk about my travels. He didn’t think he’d like NYC because he was used to all the land and grass like we were surround by. I told him Maine was similar but not hot and humid. He talked about the deadliest catch being filmed there.
It’s been over an hour from my initial stop when the dog gets there. The dog runs around the car but then slows down in the back then climbs up and peers in the front passenger window. My heart sinks. “Oh goodness” I think. But it is a rental car. I have no clue what’s been in it or how clean it is. The dog handler tells me his dog “sat.” I understand that. I’ve seen military dogs sit for bombs. Now they have probable cause.
I’ve got five police officers there. The police explains the process. He says he needs to get my stuff out and have the dog sniff the individual packages. They open doors, pop the truck and lay out all my belongings. I’ve got two storage trunks in my trunk and another two in the back seat plus two suitcases and a cute leather duffle from Florence that I get complimented on all the time. I wonder if they are going to break their backs lifting these things. They are heavy and my necessities until my household goods get shipped to my new home. I watch them examine my combat boots and cute strappy wedges both laying freely in my trunk of my car.
The young officer emerges from my passenger side with a little baggie. I know instantly it’s my Extra Strength Motrin. It’s got the prescription label on it and everything. The military hands out “vitamin M” for every ailment from sucking chest wounds to hemorrhoids (I kid…a little.. but we do Motrin like the dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding does Windex. It’s a cure all). But my heart sinks when I see it. Does this fella think it’s cocaine?! I explain. He says he’s never seen it packaged that way. I continue to photo document because, I still think this is ridiculous for four MPH over the limit.
Amazingly when the dog sniffled my luggage, he “sits” on the one trunk with a pad lock. The very one that the young officer asked me about earlier while we waited in the car. He asks me to unlock. I do. And watch him raffle through fruit loops, pop corn, a cute Italian purse from Florence, my hair supplies, my cutesy bathroom organization caddy, books, and lemon pepper spice (hey, I don’t know how long it will take me to find a home and I’ve been living out of a suitcase for over a year). Well the folks find noting but act confused as to what the dog smelled. They emphasized that they didn’t think I was a bad person just wanted asked questions pertaining to the trunks’ whereabouts for training. I told them all I knew was that I put the trunk in the mail and picked it up in Shreveport’s post office (sent the Air Force base there) that morning. No idea what it came in contact with in between. They all said they respected the military and what we do for the country. I get a written warning that simply states “over the speed limit” and sent me on my way. I later find out from my dad that dogs can be made to sit so police can have probable cause.
I drove off and crossed the boarder to Oklahoma 20 minutes later not feeling bummed like every other ticket. More shocked. Violated. Embarrassed. I wondered how all the nosey passerbys were judging the situation. I wondered how many cars with white drivers passed smirking that five police were tied up with me while they had a trunk full of illegal substances. I kept trying to understand the police’s position. I recalled the Fresh Prince episode when Carlton gave police the benefit of the doubt that he and Will were pulled over and arrested out of concern, but Will and Uncle Phil knew the deal. The police never said he found me suspicious because I was black but kept emphasizing solo female. A solo female fits the profile of a drug runner. So I was profiled, but not racially. I felt a little relieved for a moment. I was gender profiled. But is that any better? I got pulled over for being a girl!? In America!? You know who else pulls people over for being a girl? Saudi Arabia. Supposedly the only country in the world where woman are not allowed to drive. But apparently here in Texas women cannot drive alone. Especially with my Kentucky plates, I was a little bit too far away from the kitchen. Welcome back home to America were everyone is paranoid that everyone else is going to get them. Why was I pulled over for going 69 in a 65 in the first place? Before getting grilled with questions to which the police found suspicious? He didn’t know my cross country road trip before he pulled me over. He didn’t know my travel route before pulling me over. Out of all the other cars moving faster, why did I get pulled over? Why was I chosen out of the pack to be pulled over in the first place!? I was a few miles away from Texas Women’s University and Texas Christian University. I could have just as easily been an out of state college kid. He perceived me to exhibit suspicious behavior. But I wasn’t showing suspicious behavior until I suspiciously got pulled over.
This stop put me drastically behind schedule. I was supposed to meet my friend, Dillion, at our Alma matrer, the University of Oklahoma, for a lunch cookout but that was long over. She needed to tend to her dimpled toddler and husband. I was supposed to have dinner with four friends in Wichita but it was dang near 10 pm by the time I made it to town. One couple has an infant so late nights are a bust for them. The police search screwed this whole social engagement up. Now I would have to travel some distance in the dark increasing my vulnerability.I wondered what would have happened if I didn’t have the trump cards of a military ID or a daddy in the police force. Or if I wasn’t documenting. My military uniforms being sprawled along the highway may have saved me. Then again, the military is the reason I was on my way to California in the first place. If this can happen to me…a girl who considers her first time living in the hood was living across the street from enlisted dorms (sorry y’all…I got some bougie in me) Heaven help the black people from a less economically privileged backgrounds. this one time was traumatizing enough. I absolutely understand Eric Gardner being irritated that this sort of intrusion happened to him regularly.
What could I learn from this? What could I have done differently? Certainly don’t stray too far from the kitchen. Take a chaperon. Maybe not tell the whole story. Maybe if I would have said Shreveport to Wichita I could have avoided this. Maybe some emotional maturity on my part not to react to the police’s hostility. Overall I think some communication skills and training on the police’s part…the professional who pulls over on the highway everyday…could have avoided it. Telling me how fast right off instead of ambiguity. Not being sketchy trailing me in the car. Communicating why he was asking his questions first off. A Gender-studies and African-American studies class would have shed light on the historical trauma of interactions between police and my demographic. Recognizing that the stretch of highway I was on was in-between two major Military Bases. It would let him know my behavior was justifiably nervous. I cannot control how he behaves and I controlled myself with dignity and poise to the best of my ability, but the body reacts differently.
My phone started blowing up with friends calling to check on me. Facebook comments were multiplying. My mom said she was sick enough to vomit when she saw my posts. My Redheaded BFF’s (the one I was trying to see in Wichita) mom just thought it was horrible. One conversation I had asked what was their probable cause for searching. I answered, “Being a solo female taking an odd route.” Because that’s what the police emphasized. Unacceptable!
“Do you think your white female friends have ever had this happen to them?” Someone asked. I tried to imagine about 10 different girls standing on the side of that road. I wondered if they’d go their whole life without appearing suspicious to someone. My redheaded friend in Wichita did say she was searched by our hometown police because she and our blond friend were sitting in a McDonald’s parking lot without McDonald’s food back in high school. The blonde’s dad called to complain later. At least the two were together to be witnesses of mischief for each other. I recalled a friend (black male) being so upset he was hand cuffed while a cop searched his things on a highway. Now, not only could I sympathize, I could relate. A white female Air Force officer said her truck was searched with her permission while she was PCSing near the Mexican boarder in Arizona as well. One of my black, male military officer friends said his car always gets searched every single time he get’s pulled over. I got outpourings of black male friends who said it’s happened to them at least once. Out of all the white people I knew — keeping in mind the sea of whiteness I grew up in…keeping in mind I didn’t have a single black friend until college (meaning every black person I associate with is college educated) only three had been searched by police. Yet when it came to black male peers, all Air Force officers, into the teens revealed to me that they’d been searched during a traffic stop. That doesn’t include other ridiculous over reactions by police that weren’t traffic stops.I tried to imagine if I were a white man, would I have gotten pulled over for 4 over the limit? Not a chance. A white woman? Maybe, according to this guy, women take drugs to the Mexican boarder. But I imagine they’d be tacky looking women. Not one in pearls and tailed capris and ballet flats. I doubted all this hold up and searching would have happened with my once I explained I was in the military.What was most telling was all the white men who didn’t seem to understand. “Well, the police was just keeping our highways safe,” a white male military officer justified. Other white male military officers expressed that they couldn’t understand all that for four MPH over. But they would never consider race as a factor. They just couldn’t understand. A military officer, and self professed recovering pot head said, “Well I used to smoke a lot of pot and this never happened to me. So there must’ve been something else. they were probably looking for someone.” His confession was little more than bragging about the deeds he got away with.
I saw police pulled over on sides of roads the entire road trip. I tried to remember if I had ever seen a fair complexioned person standing outside their car. This incident gives me plenty to think about along the way to Wichita. I was getting bored and lonely during the drive but now, I had plenty of folks to talk to. This was certainly an experience. A pretty traumatizing one. To know that this man can do anything he wants to do to you on the side of the road and there’s noting you can do about it is incredibly paralyzing and a powerless position to be in.
A fellow military officer described an encounter while deployed and how he thought he was going to be killed. “You don’t know what its like. You’ve never had a deployment like mine,” He huffed. I do know what it’s like. Except I learned what it feels like after my deployment in your beloved Texas. In the country that I defend…not the country I invaded. He is financially compensated for the PTSD he got from the experience.
I’d hate for this to happen to anyone else. But I think it also revealed that this type of thing really does happen for those who deny that some people are targeted more than others. One former co-worker said it was an eye opener for her because she always judged people she saw getting searched on the side of the road until it happened to me — a low likelihood target. Welcome home.
Nashville just became my favorite American city this weekend. In fact, this southern town has me reassessing my rankings for the title of favorite cities in the world.
I grew up two hours away from this glorious southern city and somehow just now realizing the friggin’ awesomeness that is Tennessee’s capital.
How should I explain it…it’s like when you go on the best first date of your life… and you can’t stop smiling and gushing, and reveling in every moment. You just want to keep getting to know the fella better…that’s how I feel about Nashville!
Now I had been to Nashville a time or few before. Once for sure on a school field trip to the Parthenon. Once when UK played in the music city bowl. I have a guy pal who calls Nashville home so I got to experience it for New Year’s once when I lived in Montgomery and of course, it tends to be the go-to spot the bachelorette parties of Kentucky girls. Every time, it’s been a good time. But this time just sealed the deal.
On a Friday afternoon, a motley crew of my friends and friends of friends loaded up our cars and trucks and headed up to Music City for what we pre-judged would be an epic weekend. Ryan scored a super sweet vacation condo rental in the heart of downtown. Ten of us or so made it our home. It was walking distance from everything!
So here was our itinerary:
Friday:
After Pre-gaming & getting ready in the condo, we took the party to Broadway:
Tequila Cowboy– The line is long outside the dance room but go in through the Karaoke bar next door line where all the off-key tourist try their luck in becoming Nashville’s next star. The two bars connect in the back. This bar didn’t have a live band sans Karaoke singers but it does have a mechanical bull, pool tables, and a hip hop dance room all upstairs and toward the back. I discovered (or should I say Chris discovered) the upstairs area for the first time this weekend even though I’d been in this place twice before for bachelorette adventures. It’s bigger than it seems.
Tootsies– Ladies who are singing double and wearing stilettos beware…this place features tons of steps right at the entrance. The ladies room is about half way between the first 30 step and the last. It plays a variety of music, features a live band and a rooftop Terrace. There was no cover!
The Stage– This place was our favorite for the night because it had the most rockin’est band, amazing bar tender, and nice crowd but not uncomfortable.
Part of the group went and got Luigi’s pizza to feed the late night hunger. I took myself to bed. It was too much fun with a lot of getting lost, looking for people, herding cats, getting separated, laughing, singing, dancing, and flirting. The best ever!
Saturday: After making a homemade breakfast in house,half our group headed to Lynchburg to check out Jack Daniel’s Distillery. Us ladies first made a Starbucks run on Church Street and partake in a little homework (yes, we had a mini nerd session). Then we look ourselves out shopping on Broadway because we couldn’t help but notice all the cute boutiques that were closed while we partied.
Why on Earth are there two male restrooms?!
While out, we happened to run into our buds at Rippy’s. Rippy’s offered greasy, fried lunch food and three bands in each dining area. We were not a fan of one in particular. “Douche Rocket” was the name he was termed when he refused to take anyone’s request without first getting $20. Pretty lame homeboy! Play, and then we’ll pay you based on your performance and charisma. But the bartender was a sweetheart named Annalise who kept the yee-haws (some tasty concoction with three types of liquor) coming. She is what kept us until a more personable performer took the stage.
We did a little more day drinking and bar-food eating before taking a mid-afternoon siesta. I was honestly kind of craving something more substantial than tacos, burgers, and pizza but it sure seemed hard to find in walking distance. They did have an Old Spaghetti Factory but the wait without a reservation was too much. I settled for street tacos instead. After our naps it was time for Nashville Nights round two.
This time we checkout out Wild Horse Saloon on 2nd Avenue. I got acquainted with this bar at a bachelorette party. This is my favorite bar! First, it’s huge with a big dance floor. They give line dance lessons every hour in between live music sets. They play DJ music while the band rests. There’s like three active bars meaning very little wait times. They have a $6 cover (waves for military members and one friend). I love this place. Oh, and the gentlemen know how to dance and spin you around the floor and it’s really just so much fun.
Sunday: We checked out a little more of the non-party side of downtown. The Titans play a block away from our condo…perfect location! Then we headed to Lynchburg which was a whole other adventure in its own.
Seven Quick Reasons why I love Nashville
1. They don’t call it music city for nothin’ live bands all day, every day. Everyone plays. Everyone sings. Even the dude on the corner collecting change in his guitar case is freakin’ awesome.
2. Nobody parties like Nashville. I loved the fun-loving people, the dancing, the music. There’s downtown and midtown, both for partying. You’re going to need several weekends to conquer both.
3. The fashion: It’s comfortable. Flip flops, cowboy boots, wedges short, ripped jeans, sun dresses…It’s comfortable and cool. No need for extra tight, shiny dresses or sky-high stilettos often found in hip-hop geared areas.
4. The food. This resturuant title cracks me up. Didn’t even try to sound Spanish. Around here, they speak Amuriken. And the food is quintessentially southern.
5. The southern hospitality at it’s finest. If I didn’t know any better I’d swear all the residents of Nashville had PhDs in Southern Charm. I basically just started answering to honey, darling, and sweetheart like it was my name. How can you not instantly fall in love with everyone who uses endearing terms for you? Be careful not to buy more just because of all the sweetness! I miss this part of the south.
6. Outside the party district, is academia. Just scholars oozing out of the historic streets. Although it identifies itself as a musical town first and foremost, Nashville is also called the Athens of the south because it’s home to something like ten universities. In honor of this distinction Nashville also features a replica of Greece’s Parthenon. So you can get a little European experience in the south.
7. Shopping. Quaint boutiques and major retailers. This place has them both.
Partying with amazing friends in Nashville after a year in Qatar and two years in Germany was like America saying, “Welcome Home.” This place is quintessentially southern, and quintessentially American. Nashville, you make a girl inspired to write poetry in honor of your wonder. How long has your awesomeness been going on? This weekend you have become my favorite American city. I only saw about a quarter mile of this city on this visit but I have fallen in love. I heart Nashville.
After three years and 26 countries abroad, it’s time I brought my wanderlust back to the United States. But that’s not to say my adventure stops here. I’m back with a few weeks on my hands and kind of, got the spontaneous idea that I should undertake the epic adventure of a cross country road trip from one ocean to the other. This spiraled into the goal of seeing all 50 states. Then got dialed back to the more attainable goal of seeing all 50 before My 30th birthday instead of all in one fail swoop. I was inspired by Forest Gump’s epic run, Louis & Clarke’s trail, Oprah’s cross-country road trip with Gail, and a “how to see all 50 states” map. Then I altered everyone else’s trails for my own. Folks that I talk to still seem a little confused as to why I’d want to undergo such a pilgrimage. Here’s a bit more on what I’m hoping to get out of this journey.
1. This is my re-Americafication. I want to Re-emerse myself in all that is glorious about my homeland.
2. I’ve always wanted to see it all. In elementary school I dreamed of visiting all 50 states. At 18, I put it on my bucket list of things to do before I died. Why not complete it before I turn 30?
3. I’ve seen so much in other countries and so little of my own. I was talking to a German collegue who said he’d seen the Grand Canyon but not Germany’s most popular tourist attraction, Neuschwanstein. Well, I was the reverse. The American who’d seen Neuschwanstein but not the Grand Canyon. I’ve seen he great pagoda but never times square. I’ve seen several American Military Cemeteries in France but never Arlington. On these little, trivial but fun, social media quizzes that ask how much of the world you’ve seen, sights in America are always the ones to lower my score.
4. When I describe America or Americans, I’m really describing the south or southerners. I often think, “We don’t do/have this in America.” Correction! We just don’t roll like that in the south. And apparently, there’s more to America than The South.
5. I always thougt I’d focus on seeing the world while I was young and able bodied and save America for when I got too old to fly or had too many kids for it to be advantageous to fly to europe. But there’s no time like the present to check off the o’l bucket list. My mom thought I should wait until she retired so she could go with me…but who knows when my schedule will allow adventure like this again. Seize the day! This is one instance where I believe in the whole, don’t put off til tomorrow what you can do today, bit.
Since I’ve already been to all the Southern states, in the essense of saving time behind the wheel, they took less priority. One way rental fees will cost a fortune good thing all my lodging will be with the friends I have sprinkled across this grande nation.
I’m crazy excited! On this tour, I’ll travel to see things and learn things more than doing things. I have a feeling this won’t be the last. On my next adventure across the states I’ll focus more on being active and doing things. I expecting plenty of time to reflection and my perspective to be forever altered. I’ll keep you posted!
Maine is the first stop on my cross-country road trip and home of the lovely Carrie whom I met while in Qatar and instantly became BFFs. She met me at the Portland Airport and guided me to her charming home (complete with wrap around porch) a little further north. I flew out of Chattanooga for a Google Flights ticket that ran me under $200. Since I am traveling while everyone else is working, the next morning, after her hubby cooked us breakfast, she journeyed to work and I went out to explore. I made it to the little island of Bar Harbor. Carrie later met up with me after she got off of work.
It’s hard to believe Alabama and Maine are part of the same country. Maine reminded me of the Netherlands with the outdoorsy feel, the active people with their well-behaved dogs and sail boats. The people spoke with such an accent that I couldn’t readily identify as them as Americans or international tourist. For example, locals pronounce the town of Bar Harbor as Ba Ha Buh and Lobster is Lobstah. And they somewhat reminded me of the mom from Bobby’s World (back in the good ol’ days when cartoons made sense). In The South, North Face is a fashion statement to look cute at late fall football games in. In Maine, it and Gortex in general, is a lifestyle staple. They have rocky beaches and people don’t lat and sun bath, but hunt for star fish and shells and skip rocks. Main does Lobster Shacks like we do Barbeque.
I went up to Maine with my southern summer attire packed in my duffel bag. Fortunately, I also brought a jacket (swiped from my sister). So there I was, in Bar Harbor enjoying the refreshingly humidity-free day (never knew this existed in the summer in America) in my sundress and flip flops when, out of nowhere, it poured down freezing cold rain. It was a good time to break for lunch so I ducked into a Chinese restaurant until the rain stopped. Then I was back to poking into little shops. Seriously, Maine looks like the pages right out of Lands end or L.L. Bean that come to life.
Typical Bar Harbor
This was the beach.
I didn’t even recognize this as a beach until I saw masses of people in their gortex congregating.
Carrie and I ducked under a tree as it started to pour down in Bar Harbor.
This is a Maine Beach. Nothing like the Beaches of Florida, Bama, Virginia, Carolinas…
While traveling south from Bar Harbor to Portland I came across another cute little town and had to stop. It was actually the swinging bridge that peaked my interest. That lead to me exploring and coming across the historical Bowdoin College. It was founded in 1794. It’s president was a war hero turned Governor. The Above picture was at his home on the edge of campus which gives tours and sheds light on some of the history of the town of Brunswick, the state of Maine, and the nation of America.
I liked the architecture/engineering of this swinging, pedestrian bridge. And the views from it were breath taking. This is what America looks like!
Visiting Brunswick, Maine is a great day trip from Bar Harbor. Apparently, the southern Coast of Maine is a summer destination spot. The Bush Family vacations here. It’s nicknamed “vacation land.” The next day I explored as I made my way down to Vermont and New Hampshire. Maine has quaint, picturesque little towns and coastlines. The people are friendly. I couldn’t deal with the snow in the winter but Maine will most certainly be my new vacation spot. It’s the type of place you stay for about two weeks. You get a vacation rental, let your children run off with the other tourists children while you relax, boat, swim, spa, and have lobster boils every evening. Then grab the family for hiking excursions or moose sightings.
As I traveled a little further south I made it to Portland . Since you cannot come to Maine and not see a light house, I put in the GPS “Portland Headlight” and it took me here. It’s a historic spot in Port Elizabeth.
I spent two nights in Maine and spent no more than $100 on Chinese food, holiday ornaments, a Maine tee shirt, historical house museum admission, and moose pajamas for my nephew. I saved by accepting the amazing hospitality of my dear friend. Next time, I’ll know to pack for out door activities and a rain jacket. This is not the place for sundresses and cute flip flops. I’ll know that morning is the best time for whale watching and puffin sightings. I did spend some time deciding what to do. Next time, If I come with family, I will know Bar Harbor is great for coastal living and outdoorsy adventures, Brunswick is a charming little town, and Portland is more of the Urban sprawl with pubs and night life. All are all great starting points. I took Route 1 down the coast line and ran into cute little town after cute town. Next time I’ll know to take a full wallet and empty suite case because there are plenty of shopping outlets along the route.
If you visit Bar Harbor, go to Down East Lobster Co — it’s where the locals go. They charge a cooking fee to boil your lobster. Be sure to ask for one pot if you are cooking multiples. You can buy live, cooked, and frozen Lobster there. Not a lot of ambiance but the shell fish is good and cheap. They do a lot of micro brews in this state. You’ll be hard pressed to find Bud Light. So now, when Germans with refined taste in beer think of American beer in disgust, I know I’ll need to send them up north. I liked Sebags and Allagash,
*That’s my quick and dirty observation while trying to stay on schedule while traveling. Stay tuned for updates when time allows(I haven’t even gotten to my lobster experiences).
When you are an American living overseas you start to view the things that go on in your homeland a little differently. You have other standards to compare the American way.
In America, we often like to think we are the standard of excellence. I’m sure many countries believe the same. But with only 30 percent of Americans owning passports, how much expose to other ways of life do we get? Do Americans understand that there are countries that exist were women can walk down the street, intoxicated, at night, alone without fear of attack? Do they realize there are schools that are not locked down and checking students for weapons? Do Americans consider, that, in some countries, if they leave their front door wide open while on a long weekend get away, their belongings will be safe and secure when they return home four days later? I have seen all of those scenarios play out here in Germany and each time I thought, Man, if that was in America, things may not have turned out the same way. Safety is part of the way of life here in Germany. I left my designer purse on a train with my credit card and cash and do you know the finder tracked me down on Facebook to get the purse back to me. I’ve had a busted window for two weeks, and no one broke into my home. I travel alone.
I was once on a train when I met a Nigerian Universität student who was getting his graduate degree in mathematics. I will never understand why people will pay to get a degree in math but that is beside the point. He said something that was so profoundly simple:
“You will never do things excellently if you have never been exposed to excellent ways of doing things.”
When I sit here, saddened and feeling helpless by all the terrible tragic news spawning out of my country, I wonder if Americans are aware that there is a better, safer way. Now, media sensationalism is an issue on its own, but just the fact that terrible tragedies and massacres happen for the news to report on is a concerning issue. Americans are quick to believe that bad, crazy things like the Boston Marathon bombing happens everywhere, we just don’t hear about them. As if it somehow makes the regular occurrence of violence in America more normal. I just don’t think most American have been exposed to a non-violent way of life.
I hear those who oppose gun control. The moment they hear the phrase, “gun control” they know they are opposed without hearing how guns will be controlled. I hear the common argument from gun enthusiast, “guns don’t kill people, people kill people”; “Guns causing deaths is like saying a fork causes obesity” ; “Gun laws only are only followed by law abidding citizens.” I get it. But I wonder if those people would change their tune if they were the ones frantically calling their teenager who went to the movies on a Friday night with friends that got shot up. I wonder if they’d change their argument if they were standing in the lobby of that movie theater surrounded by dead, brace-faced teens with phones going off in their pockets.
Photograph by Nick Ut/AP Photo
I am a southern girl who believes no civilian needs to own an AK-47 or an AR-15. The purpose of these guns is to stop battalions of approaching, adversary armies equipped with equally deadly weapons. And what American, with the except on of the less than 1% in the military, will ever be faced with a situation where they need to protect themselves with a machine gun? No one shoots a deer or a dove with a machine gun! So why have one? So really the only reason for one is to use on humans. A machine gun is overkill (excuse the pun) for self defense. And how can one even practice shooting with one? What gun range allows such weapons? If you are not in the war fighting industry, in the profession of arms, protecting your country against an enemy army, what right do you have to won a military weapon? We often confuse rights with privileges. And Americans have abused the privilege of legally owning military-style weapons. If a zombie apocalypse happens let the U.S. Military handle it. They are trained and equipped far better than the paranoid folks down home who are storing up arsenals for it. Besides, 40% of the military comes from the south. They will defend their homes first, no doubt.
Some argue the simple point that gun control is unconstitutional. They argue prohibiting them infringes on their constitutional rights. Really? Every American has the right to own a weapon of major destruction? Americans have the right to bear arms. No one is taking away our right to own a gun. But just because someone is American does not give him the right to spray bullets at anyone. And concerned Americans should not wait and punish such people after they do. They should make it more difficult to allow it to happen in the first place. I’m pretty sure when Thomas J and his buds wrote up the constitution they had no idea America would be turned into a vigilante, child-killing state.
Yes there will always be ways to kill. But hitting 20 kindergarteners to death with a baseball bat will take more effort than hosing them down with an AK-47. The National Rifle Association released an advertisement hours before Obama spoke on gun control that accused him of hypocrisy for accepting armed Secret Service protection for his daughters. The White House only called the ad “repugnant” and didn’t dignify it with any other response, but allow me to state the obvious— the secret service does not carry machine guns to protect little Sasha and Malia! Besides, those two little girls are targets for evil doers. Most Americans are not. I’d bet most who own or lobby for semi-automatic rifles are not high interest targets for attacks.
So how should Americans prevent violent massacres from becoming common place? Americans do not want their rights to own whatever guns they want taken away. They do not want limits on violent media — that would be censorship and a violation of freedom of speech and expression. What do we do when it is our liberties that breed our violence? Some say stop shielding kids from disappointment so they learn they don’t always get their way, put God back in public schools, parents need to know what’s going on in their kid’s lives, better yet, and women should stop working so they can focus more on their family. I do think families are key. But not everyone has good a good family. How do you enforce parental responsibility? Just shrug our shoulders and say it’s not our problem…until someone comes to our children’s school, mall, or movie theater?
When do we get tired of having to set out memorials?
Since I’ve lived in Germany I’ve watched a list of shootings happen: Tucson Shooting, Portland mall holiday shooting, Aurora, Colorado Movie Theater Shooting, Sandy Hook shooting, and now the Boston Marathon bomb. But nothing of the sort has happened in Germany during that time. In fact, I can only find three school shootings in German history on in 2002, 2009, and one before I was born in 1964. The most recent ones, committed by teenagers just as American shootings are usually committed by young people. The Washington Post and New York Times reported that America’s homicide rate is 20 times more than any other developed country. No other developed country has this problem! Are we leading or trailing? America is on par with war-torn, poverty-stricken, developing (or formally third world) countries. Violence is becoming a common part of our culture like Gaza, Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan and Iran. And yet we pride ourselves at being world leaders and the standard of excellence. If I were from a developing country with America’s crime rate, I wouldn’t be out of line to file asylum and get to stay in Germany as a refugee.
The European political science students I run into just don’t understand our need to balance our constitutional right to own arms. “Why does your country allow crazy people to have guns and kill children,” Hugo, a Political science student at Valencia Universidad in Spain asked. I had the same conversation with a French guy in a bar. It’s so difficult defending our politics to Europeans.
We’ve got to try something. Some politician has got to be confident enough to try to do what’s right without regards to what is going to keep his nice pay check flowing. In Germany, only sportsmen can have guns after getting a license and testing. Either we acknowledge that access to the most deadly weapons are part of the problem or we just shrug our shoulders and chalk it up to our culture. We just accept that school shootings, and killings in public places are just a part of the American way just as those in Gaza, Yemen, Iraq, and Pakistan have adjusted to life with bombs constantly going off around their homes. I say let’s try the president’s plan out. Let’s be concerned with mental health. Let’s do more to keep guns out of the hands of unstable people. Let’s do more than just sit around talking about the travesties then oppose every idea to prevent future tragedies. If we care let’s just try to put laws in place. If they don’t work we can re-evaluate later. Otherwise, let’s just accept violence as an inherent part of our liberties.
People in the U.S. are generally less mobile than those in Europe. Certainly, you can point out a few exceptions: President Barack Obama, singer Amerie, basketball player Kobe Bryant, actor Boris Kodjoe, missionaries, and military members, and so on who have had experiences living long-term abroad. But for most Americans, the biggest move they will ever experience is the one they make when they leave home to attend college. Or perhaps they move across town, across the state, or in more rare occasions across the country. Some estimates say only 30 percent of Americans own a passport, thus even less than that have been out of the country, and even fewer have ventured outside of the North American continent. The concept of remaining in one’s own country is simply unheard of in Europe. Why? Because the European countries are small enough that a two hour drive can launch you across international borders into neighboring countries with different languages and varied cultures.
I believe it is because of our lack of travel experiences that we Americans are particularly comfortable putting simplified labels on other people in an attempt to categorize their background and make assumptions of their beliefs and upbringing. It bothers us when we cannot readily categorize someone — in essence, simplify our understanding of their being. I am not saying Europeans do not do the same thing as well, however, I do believe they are more aware that simple labels do not adequately classify people because they have the opportunity to come across a diversity of people every day. You may say, “America is very diverse! We have so many different ethnic backgrounds that make up Americans.” But that’s just it…at the end of the day we are all Americans with the same primary culture.
In Europe, these simplified categorizations become, well, not so simplified. When you ask a person where he is from, you can expect a variety of answers. Truly, what does that question mean? In the U.S. you will either get a response that articulates where a person was born, where that person grew up, or where that person identifies as home. On rare occasions you may get an answer that deals with lineage to another country. Recently at a Mexican restaurant in Stuttgart-Vaihingen, the owner had the strangest accent that I could not place. My friends and I asked where he was from.
“I’ll give you your meal on the house if you can guess,” he said, “But you’ll never guess.”
I guessed he was a Brit. I would say I was closest, but was I really? He was born and reared in South Africa by parents of English decent. He served in the United States Military, lived in southern California where he learned how to cook Mexican food, and then he moved to Germany for, what else, love. So how is a white South African of English decent who served in the United States military and has lived in Germany for a large portion of his life identified? He didn’t grow up with the same experiences as a British child. He’s kind of South African…but not a Dutch South-African, as he made certain we were aware. According to the article, “Black, White – or South African”, 82 percent of white South Africans identify themselves as South African as opposed to only 44 percent of the black majority of residents there. Yet only 5 percent of white South Africans consider themselves as African. Seems inconsistent right? How can one be South African but not African?
The South-Africa-with-English-lineage-Mexican-restaurant-owner asked how I’d describe where I was from.
That’s been the kicker since I have lived in Germany. Do these people want to assume I’m a tourist and desire to know where in the United States I am from, or do they want to know where in Germany I live, or do they want to know about the origins of my European last name? During a visit to France, a man refused to call me an American. I told him my German & Scottish heritage. African was the only label he would accept. African — as if that label is not complex enough in itself. The Mexican Restaurant owner talked about how he’s called folks back in the United States “African American”, and they corrected him with more accurate labels which influenced him to no longer label people, or to live by the labels incorrectly adhered to him.
The discussion with the restaurant owner led me to recall a student in one of my undergraduate courses who discussed her dilemma whereby she was encouraged to apply for an African-American scholarship. The problem? She was actually only “African”. She emphasized that there was a big difference between African, African-American, and Black American. The cultures, heritage, and traditions are different. That same year, a white South African who earned his American citizenship applied for that same scholarship, causing a stir when it was awarded to him. Some claimed he was more representative of the title “African American” than the intended scholarship target group who were actually black American students who had never been to the continent; yet some refused to accept this pale-skinned man as African even though he lived in Africa for the majority of his life. Perhaps South Africans do not consider themselves as African since others on the outside have a hard time accepting them as such. Is saying that a white person cannot be an African equal to saying that a black person cannot be American or European? How is it different? That was the year I no longer considered myself African American but a Black American.
Then there’s the concept of the Black American vice the American Black which stems from the consciousness of how one self identifies. The differences lie in the distinction of meaning when the words “Black” and “American” are used as an adjective or noun. Is one a Black (noun) who identifies with the world’s collective Black population and you happen to be the American (adjective) representation of Black? Or is one an American (noun) who identifies with America as a whole and happens to be a brown-skinned (adjective) representation of “American-ness”? My college roommate said she thought all the Jews of the world were united as one until she made a pilgrimage to Israel. She then realized she is certainly a Jewish American and not an American Jew.
I have two friends whose identities are a patchwork of beautiful culture, birth, and residence. Annie is a first Generation American from Ghana. Bibi is a first generation American from Nigeria. They speak to their parents in Twi and Yoruba respectively. They grew up with African dress, manners, music, family gatherings, and seemed to know everyone from their countries within a 100 mile radius. Annie had both a traditional southern debutant ball as well as a Ghanaian event where she was introduced to society. I have had classmates who were first generation Americans from Senegal and Sierra Leone, they seemed more representative of the term “African American” than me. I identify more with the “Black American” whose roots are so deeply embedded in America’s history that I cannot claim a particular country in Africa, but could certainly lay legitimate claim to origin from countries on the European continent.
In Europe I find more and more intriguing stories of identity like this. Just recently in the Canary Islands someone approached my beau and I. “American Accents!” he exclaimed before asking where we were from. He called himself a native Virginian (but didn’t call himself a Southerner, though he did label me as such.) He said he left a lucrative job as an attorney after being disgusted when he discovered that justice was dependent on income. Instead, he chose a profession as a videographer recording whales and sea life in Spain. His mother was from Tenerife in the Canary Islands, and he held dual citizenship in Spain and the U.S. He spoke with quite a strange accent. He almost sounded British, which made me wonder if he developed his dialect while hanging around the Brits who inhabit the islands, or perhaps his mother was a British Canary Island dweller or a native Spaniard. There he was, a fellow southerner with a complex identity. I wonder if he ever reflects on his unique identity.
One of the most intriguing conversations of my life was with someone with an unclassifiable identity. My beau and I were dining in a fancy French restaurant in downtown Stuttgart (Le Cassoulet you’ve got to try it if you’re ever in the area). Our interest was inexplicably drawn to a party of four at a nearby table. They flowed smoothly in conversation switching back and forth from French to German. My Beau, a mildly talented French speaker, eavesdropped to see what he could understand. Finally, the most verbose of the group had enough wine to break the ice with us. We asked if he was French or German. The three men and one woman in the party chuckled. “Where are we from?” the lady pondered, buying time until she could decide how she would tell the story. The lively man’s German-Jewish parents knew something was heating up in Germany before WWII, they fled to Shanghai just before he was born.
“Why Shanghai?,” I asked.
“Why not?,” was her response.
The West had restrictions on immigration at that time. So the only place to go was east, “and who wants to go to Poland?” the man joked (or so I think). So his family, like many others, went Far East where he spent the first seven years of his life in China. When it was safe to return to Europe, his family settled in France. His first European home was France. Now he is a well-traveled business man who frequents Stuttgart. So where is he truly from, and how does a one-city or one-country response to “where are you from” adequately articulate anything about this man’s experiences?
In The South you’ll often times hear, “Where are your people from?” as if the answer will validate your existence and shed light on your character and what is to be expected of you. Sometimes people will proudly tell you the county or state they hail from or even what schools they attended as if that should tell you all you need to know of them. It’s not uncommon for folks in The South to live on the same family land for generations, so perhaps that question was appropriate many years ago. But since WWII, people have been set in motion and are constantly on the go. Among the hundreds of discoveries I’ve made about myself and the world through my European experience, I am learning that it is less apt to try to define people by where they are from than to get to know their story. Accents, bone structure, skin color, eye shape, language, teeth, and mannerisms can help gauge where a person is from but you’ll miss out on their amazing story if you stop there and don’t get to know them. Although our history forms the building blocks of our collective societal foundation, it’s our personal experiences that completes the construction of the individuals we truly are.
I challenge my readers to venture out and get to know someone’s story; even someone you think you know quite well (like a family member or co-worker with whom you sit beside every day). You may have to build relationships up or break barriers down to get past the “What are your hobbies, how many kids do you have” type questions. Wonderful soul-revealing conversations include discussions of what drives and motivates a person or how they overcome conflict. You might be delightfully surprised to find that your unassuming aunt has stories that offer a depth to who she is, and that could inspire you for years to come.
