How could I see the Eiffel Tower, Great Wall of China, the bell tower of Big Ben, the Berlin Wall, Neuschwanstein Castle, hiked the Himalayas, skied the Alps, visit the Grand Mosque before I ever saw the Golden Gate Bridge, Chrysler Building, Apollo Theater, and Grand Canyon in my own country?! I talked to a German colleague who listed all the great sights of America he’d seen and I hadn’t seen a single one. Likewise, although he’d seen the wonders of the United States, he hadn’t seen wonders of his own homeland.So, in my quest to see all 50 states,I’m headed off to Wyoming and Montana! Yellowstone is just one of those places I’ve always wanted to go since childhood. And, because my most adventurous friends are either starting their school years, deploying, or otherwise, pre-obligated, I’m traveling the Great North West alone. Which is what prompted this post.
If something should happen to me as a result of Traveling While Black, please know…
That I am well aware that there is no guilt or shame in this world that God’s grace won’t cover. Christ was already crucified for anything I could have possibly done, so there’s no need to crucify myself. Plus, I have plenty of awesome friends and family that will talk me off a ledge and help me regain perspective. Know, that I am not part of that 1% or so of black women who would ever commit suicide.
I have too much to accomplish and only a few years of this life to do it in. There’s that Pulitzer Prize winning novel I’ve yet to pen. There’s a story waiting to be written that will capture the experiences of those who are often overlooked in literature that will be a NY Times best seller, just waiting for me to write. I have Caldecott Medals, Newberry Awards, and Coretta Scott King Awards to achieve.
I have too many travel adventures on the books that I’m looking forward to. I have nine more states to visit before I can blog about my favorite places in America! I’m knocking out two on this trip, and plan to see the rest before schools in California start at the end of September. I’m looking forward to my rendezvous with my fellow freedom-defending cousins in Spain for New Year’s to see that Monkey Jesus painting that one of my friends described as “a finger painted self-portrait of Curious George!”
This is hilarious!
I’m finally spring-breaking in Peru with my favorite travel pals! Then there’s Puerto Rico next summer. This is my super Spanish year! I am going to buckle down and finally read the Spanish version of Don Quixote that’s been sitting on my shelf next to my Spanish text book from college (darn UK Spanish department decided to change books and I couldn’t sell it back to the book store!). Plus there’s way too much of this world I haven’t seen and experienced. I need to see Taylor Swift in Singapore or South Africa. I need to honeymoon in the Maldives and spend bachelorette vacation in the Seychelles. My niece and I need to take pictures with the giant tortoises in the Galapagos Islands. I haven’t held a Koala in Australia yet. I need a Parisian address at some point. My great-grandma live to be 94. Her daughter is currently 90 so I do not think it’s too much of a stretch to think I should make it to 97. Even so, I’ve only got a limited time to be super active and hit up all seven continents. I’m not going to take myself out of the game before reaching my goal.
I look forward to all the amazing things I can do this school year. One year down as a professor and, after spending the summer with other professors at other universities I have new ideas on how to accomplish bigger goals. But first, I’m going to have to toughen up. I can’t lower standards so folks can reach it. I can’t feel sorry for students as much (i.e. aw, you slept through my final…I’ll give up my break so you can take it). I’m nixing the mass amounts of extra-credit I give. Last year, I made it rain EC points. Like 40 points worth and kiddos still didn’t get As! The students that already had the 117% in the class were the ones who took on the optional essay while the 79.5% students did nothing to reach the next letter grade. Students who don’t show up to my mid-term and final will get no sympathy from me anymore. I am not grading essays over my spring break because college students turn their work in late. I have to watch these scholars blossom and be there at their graduation…fighting back tears of pride.
I have a lot of personal, professional, and educational goals and prospects. I need to get published…scholarly work and fiction. I need to get more proficient at some languages. Maybe I need to get published in one of those languages! I need to be able to clear a 4 foot jump on a thoroughbred. I want to play T. Swift’s “Our song” on banjo. I’m still waiting to hear back from my dream university. I want to design, build and live in a mini mansion. I still have til October to get myself in bikini competition champion condition (probably shouldn’t have had that Oreo frappe this morning)!
Everyone who knows me knows I’m not about to tap out of this life without the opportunity to wear a legendary, alencon lace-trimmed, three-quarter length sleeve, scalloped, boat neck gown. I’ll stand in the same little Baptist church in Kentucky where my grandma, mom, and I all were baptized and where both my dad and granddad received God’s favor in finding my mom and grandma. I’m like little Amy in Little Women when she says, “I don’t want to die. I’ve never even been kissed. I’ve waited my whole to be kissed, and what if I miss it?” Well, I’ve waited my whole life to be the “good thing” that someone finds and I wouldn’t end my life and miss it.
While I’m still on the fence on if I’m going to just spoil everyone else’s kids around me or make the life-long commitment to being underappreciated and sleep deprived, I still have the vision of standing up on a packed alter with generations of family and friends passing an infant down the line of supporters to his daddy who’ll lift the baby to the Lord while the pastor dedicates the child. It’ll be just as Hannah did for Sam and the congregation’s hands will lifted all promising to help raise him up. If not for my own, then surely I’ll have the opportunity to play a part in this important role for a friend’s child.
And if I do decided to become a mama (‘cus as a woman in an industrialized, modern, kinda democratic country, I get to choose motherhood…and yes…getting laid and becoming a mother are two separate decisions…and yes, I went political there) I’m not half doing it. I’m going to attempt to field the starting lineup of the UK basketball team. I mean really, lots of women are mothers but a select few get courtside seats in Rupp. Even if I fall shy of that goal, if I can get my whole family together in church come Sunday morning I’d call it a win. I’m going to filling up a whole pew with mini gentlemen looking way too cute with fresh haircuts and dressed in little suspenders, vests, argyle, corduroy, and saddle shoes. When the pastor says “turn in your Bibles…” they’ll flip through the Baptist Hymnal and point to the words, pretending to read along because they are too little to know the difference. And they’ll sit between me, who’s got baby girl #1 in my lap, and their daddy whose got baby girl # 2 in one hand and my heart in the other (yep, extra cheesy, you’ll live). Both baby girls dressed in too much lace and too many ribbons and ruffles and with adorable white patent leather shoes. And I’ll wear a big ol’ church hat that blocks the view of everyone behind me (they too, will live).
The stuff I dream up tends to happen. I envisioned living in a flat in Europe and traveling every weekend and that vision was accomplished. I envisioned being a leader and that was accomplished. Like Elle in Legally Blond when she impulsively decides to go to Harvard law…stuff somehow has a way of happening when I commit to a decision.
I wouldn’t commit suicide and I’m not disrespectful.
I want to make it apparently obvious that I am not suicidal. Even so, there’s a trend of blaming the deceased for their murder. Don’t even consider that something I did lead to my demise. There’s a quote that’s gone viral that states, “telling black people to be respectful so they don’t get killed is like telling women what to wear so they don’t get raped.” It shouldn’t matter regardless, but please know, I am respectful anyway. I grew up with old school, southern, military, non nonsense parents. I got this general respect and respect for authority thing on lock. I’ve slipped up and called my fitness trainer “sir” once when he told me go lift something, it’s just what you do. I’m a responsible drinker and since I’m traveling alone, there will be no drinks on this trip). No drugs have ever entered this body. I don’t smoke. I don’t curse. My BFF, Megan, was once interviewed as a reference for me, and let me know she thought it was important to note that as a grown woman I still used words like, “hind-end, behind, and bottom” in place of using the word “butt” because I think it’s a bit too crass. Last school year, I accidentally deleted and entire document and my expletive of choice was a “Dog gone it!” through grit teeth. My boss, who is awesome but has been known to drop an f-bombs or two teased, “I heard you almost cuss in there.” I might roll and eye which is my body’s natural reflex to BS. It would take a lot of focus to control it and sometimes the eye roll slips. But if I’m cursing, I am under extreme duress.
I’m more cautious than usual while alone. I don’t go out on the town alone. I am planning to hit up a rodeo. Hopefully that will be a safe environment for solo women of color. Hopefully I won’t get called names or have stuff thrown on me. I’m not confrontational, my impulse would be to flee a dangerous situation rather than confront it. Grabbing an officer’s gun wouldn’t be my go-to move when in distress although I’d like to imagine myself doing a Charlie’s Angel/Kill Bill-style round house kick if one was pointed in my face but realistically that’s unlikely. If anything I’d probably in shock I’m not being treated like a lady. I follow reasonable instructions of officers but getting out of a vehicle for no reason is going to put me in serious distress because I’d fear getting raped.
If I end up in jail over some nonsense like Sandra Bland, I won’t fret paying bail. I can’t imagine I wouldn’t be able to handle it by a credit card swipe or a phone call to mom & pops. Even so, I’d go Friendship 9 with it and let tax payers of the nation keep on paying my salary while I’m hanging out in jail saving money by having the tax payers of the town cover my meals and lodging. Racism and pride are expensive, but I shouldn’t be the one footing the bill for someone else’s issues.
I think that should cover the usual gamete of ways murder victims of color are usually blamed for their death. Unless I get surprised with a new, creative murder justification.
Oh, the self-defense clause? I’m the same size I’ve been since I was 12 years old. I am the size of a 12-year-old girl. When Target has cute or cheaper stuff in the little girl’s section, I’m on it. Girls size 12/14. I’m 5 foot 4.25 inches tall 120 pounds (prob closer to 125 but those extra pounds don’t matter). I’m known to smile way too much…even in formations. If someone is threatened or intimidated by me something is wrong with them. I’m not coordinated enough to dribble and run at the same time, I’m probably not coordinated enough to cause you much harm. No one at airports, parking lots, restaurants, sidewalks, malls, etc seem intimidated because they always seem to find me and have weird, awkward, or inappropriate convos with me and to tell me too much about their personal life. And “thug music”? No. The only music I’m taking with me is all 5 Deluxe editions of T.Swizzle (on CDs). I might sing to her a little loudly but If asked politely, I’m likely to accommodate requests to turn her down. Then again she did make that song, “Thug Story” so she might count as thug music. I can’t stop watching Luke Bryan sing with Jason Durelo. I wear that video out! Too cute! But Jason is a man of color so listening to his music might fall under listening to thug music and be used to justify my death. Other than that, I’ll be listening to whatever comes on Montana radio which I’ll guess isn’t too diverse. Hope they play Drake, who is the half white, Canadian boy version of Taylor (Running through the six with my woes is the equivalent of a Twentytwo, that “you suck right now” song is a “We are never ever ever getting back together.” I’ll talk about that later…provided I survive).
Use these pics as evidence. This is not a girl you needed self-defense from? A friend recently described me as a “sexy goof.” Not threatening.
If I do die before my parents, I want an epic homecoming. Make it southern, make it military, and make is quintessentially OUR FAMILY. Dave, I appoint you to ensure my mama does not give me a tacky funeral. Just because I’m dead, doesn’t mean I’m classless.
No tacky traditional funeral flowers. Think pink peonies. Two big arrangements of them flanking a white casket (or you can turn my body into a diamond…that’s a thing nowadays). For the love of Jesus, proof read the heck out of the program. If my mom is too distraught to utilize that English degree of give it to my boss, nothing gets past him.
Have a cappella Gospel Choir feeling the spirit with a lively “I’ll Fly Away” and “Soon and Very Soon.”
Sing, “His Eye is on the Sparrow” in the style of Mahalia. Have my sister sing, “Going up Yonder” and know I’ll be in Heaven shouting hallelujah just a little bit too loudly.
It would be awesome to have all three leaders: Reverend Bishop from First Baptist Elizabethtown, Reverend Aiken from First Baptist Bracktown, and Pastor Huntley from True Divine Baptist in Montgomery (he’ll be entertaining). Yes, open up the doors for salvation and if the spirit dictates, allow the opportunity for baptism, right there at a funeral. You never know when the next time someone will enter the church or if they’ll make it to next Sunday. Yes, this will be a long church session.
And yes, I want my non-Christian friends to be right there on the pews too. And I want them to feel welcome and at home. No awkward, hateful, mean, rude condemnation in the preaching. I do not approve. But if they still don’t feel comfortable even being there, be sure they know where to meet for the after party. Make it like a tailgate, barbeque style. With amazing food. Dad will handle the brisket, Karla will take care of the Mac and Cheese (this is a joke…have a backup ready). Shawn will handle the beans. Maybe a fish fry too. And let there be bourbon (and responsibility). Use my wedding fund to make sure I have a fantastic funeral (I was going to use the word “killer” in place of good here…but…probably not the best choice).
I want to be wearing that black & white A-symmetrical dress that I wore to Cathy’s wedding at my wake. But do not bury that dress, it’s much too pretty for it. Instead, give it to my baby sister cus she’ll probably be just as cute in it as me. Probably just give her all my clothes since she’s forever wanting to wear them anyway.
All the Single Ladies! Pair this dress with yellow wedges and purse. All three are in my closet.
Bury me in my cadet blues uniform (Not my good Captain one). It’s still in the back of my closet. Give my good uniform to my grandma to keep with the uniforms of all the other military members of my family. She could have a museum with all the different uniforms. If a wardrobe change is too much trouble just put me in whatever Kentucky Blue sundress no one wants. Lord knows I have way too many anyway. Or buy this one specifically for my funeral. Dad always said don’t go out and buy another suit for him if he dies, just use one that he already has…I don’t have that rule. Everyone should dress like they are going to a UK football game. Forget depressing black (unless you have a smokin’ LBD you want to get some use out of…but you’ll be in church and probably shouldn’t). Wear sundresses or seersucker and sports coats. Dress like you’re going to Derby. Don’t mourn. Celebrate my spiritual ascent.
Lastly, the only way I’d want to be buried in my hometown is if I got to stay in the veterans section of the cemetery with my mom and dad having reserved spots nearby. If not, send me to E-town, next to my great-grandma. Or just turn me into a diamond. Fire the volleys and carry on. I think that should cover it.
Last bits of odds and ins
Such a sweetie! Love my roomie
Someone will need to get my dog, Memphis, back to Kentucky. There’s money in the bank to pay for that. Use the rest of the cash in the bank to send some high school students from Daviess County, Hardin County and Montgomery off to Paris and/or Stuttgart for the summer. Mom, hand select ones that remind you of me. Make ’em write an essay, profess their love of history, culture, and travel; let them be in band, run, dance, take part in theater and prove their countless hours of community service. Pay for their study abroad tuition. I vote out of state HBCU (or of course, Kentucky) for Baby Belle and Baby Beau to go to school. Dan, sanitize my electronics for parent consumption before handing them over to my mom. Dad, I have an unused United Ticket. It’s yours, you’ll have to call. If media is involved, make sure they use the profile pic of me in my UK tee —That’s a crowd favorite. Or the pic of me, my mom, and Elizabeth in our uniforms at Liz’s Academy Commissioning. Or of my mama crying at my promotion. Don’t use my official AF photo. It’s out of date and my hair was curled too tight that day.
*Please consider the state of our union when I feel more compelled to write funeral arrangement plans before I go to Montana and Wyoming than I did before deploying.
If anyone wants to express outrage, for the love of God, do not ask, “What would Martin Luther King do?” MLK, Jr. is dead because he tried to be a Switzerland in America and that does not work. Instead, ask what great American Warriors, General William T. Sherman, General James Mattis, and the honorable Malcolm X do. Kumbaya is not the American way. It’s not even English and ‘Muricans hate it when folks don’t speak English. I’m one of the many Americans get all hoo-rah’ed up over Toby Keith’s analysis of the American way. Putting some boots in some arses gets stuff done.
Some think I’m over reacting. I sure hope so. But Tamir Rice’s life was taken in 2 seconds for being a child. Taylor Swift pens songs about being in love at 15, but fifteen-year-old Andre Green was killed last weekend along with 12 others…just in one weekend. I recall, Matthew Shepard was killed in Wyoming because of the hate in someone’s heart. I identified so much with Sandy Bland, when I read about her I though, dang, she sounds like me. Then my sister texted saying the same woman reminded her of me. And maybe that’s what it will take, is for the majority of America to see themselves in the victims. I mean, I get how it’s hard for most Americans to see themselves in a black, teen from the hood of some town no one has ever heard of. I get it. That teen is in the “out group.” He’s an “other” for many. But for me, in him I see my future son, my future husband, my dad, my friends, and my family members. When the media kept emphasizing a black teen’s 6’4″ height (and omitted that the police who killed him was just as tall) I couldn’t help but to think of my dad who is also 6’4″. I thought of my curly-haired dimple toddler nephew whose daddy and granddaddy are both 6’4″ and he probably will be as well. And simply because of his height and skin color, someone will forget that he was once our family’s pre-mature baby boy and be afraid of him.Hopefully, with as vivid a life as I’ve lived, if something should happen to me, there will be something about me that others can identify with and think, dang, that sounds like me and we ought to put a stop to shoot now, ask questions later of Americans. There is an art and strategy to protest. But the best protest would be one that would impact enough centers of gravity that would incapacitate the will and capability to take a life. Some have suggested that if I fear attack, just don’t go. But if I don’t go a get to experience the beauty of my own country, the hateful people of the world win by keeping me from experiencing all that life has to offer.
*typed on an iPhone don’t be too critical of editing.
**Since identifying oneself anyway you see fit is the thing to do now, I self-identify as the fiancé of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. If something should happen to me, please refer to me as such.
Oh Dwayne, What’s that you say? You want to smell my cooking, first thing in the morning, for the rest of your life? Not a problem.
I got a taste of the southern Utah and had to go back! With This BuzzFeed article as my inspiration, I decided to get active for my Memorial Day. I plotted my course to see it all in 4 days:
Grand Canyon National park Antelope Canyon Horseshoe Bend Bryce Canyon National Park Zion National park
I spent Friday night after work in Vegas where my co-worker was having an epic co-ed bachelor/bachelorette party in Vegas. I learned that I am much to old to be trying to keep up with recent college grads. It was a Friday night, I’d put in a full week’s worth of work and just drove three hours. I was ready to chill. they were ready to wild out. Standing in long lines while my stilettos pained my feet was not of interest to me tonight. I was also training for a fitness competition and couldn’t consume alcohol or carbs. So I kept it low-key, and turned in relatively early for a night in Las Vegas. I started my day as everyone else was going to bed and continued my journey. I had national parks to see!
The same co-worker, a recent college grad, once spoke enthusiastically about wanting to have Spring Break party trips to Lake Havasu. I’d never heard of the place. Being a southern girl my initial thoughts were why would you go to a lake in the middle of the desert to spring break on a lake when there’s Panama City Beach, Destin, Myrtle Beach, or Hilton Head? But apparently for West Coast Kids, Lake Havasu is the place to spend a week-long break from school. Well, I passed the lake on my way to the grand Canyon. I was traveling solo and this wasn’t on the itinerary but after watching groups of friends zip around on jet skis I could certainly envision spring break memories here. Why on Earth was I just now being introduced to this desert paradise?
Grand Canyon. About six hours later I finally made it to the Canyon of Canyons! Have you ever been to a place that reminds you of a song? Well, The whole time John Michael Montgomery’s “Ain’t Got Nuthin on Us” played in my mind as the sound track of this adventure.
Yes, the Grand Canyon was a sight to see. But I’d already seen Zion Canyon and quite frankly, although smaller, I found it more beautiful. That could also be partly to the low visibility and drizzly conditions I found the Grand Canyon. It was chilly and wet and smelled like donkey doo the whole walk.
Going all the way down to the bottom of the Canyon is a 20-mile, round trip and requires overnight camping, training, and planning. I did an 8 hour round-trip walk down the canyon using the Angel Trail. Clearly, this is an all day adventure. I think anyone with a strategy can handle the trip but it is strenuous even for the physically fit. You need to be well-researched and prepared. On this hike you are battling altitude, the elements, hunger (no vending machines on the trail) dehydration, and boredom! So hike smart. The trip down is faster than the trip up (of course) but be sure if you are planning an 8 hour trip you account for breaks and the harder journey back up. This is not a four hours down four hours back up kind of trip. It’s more like three hours down, five hours up.
The views were awe inspiring. I was just surrounded by greatness.
The views were captivating
And very serene and peaceful
After this eventful, physically straining, long day, I hoped in my car and continued the ride toward Horseshoe bend. It was pretty late once I made it to Page, AZ. Prior to leaving a did a google search for hotels here and not a darn one showed vacancies. Not being one to let a little detail like lodging derail my adventure I came anyway to try my luck at cancellations. I did some calling around (thank goodness for a smart phone) to no avail. I asked the lady at the gas station for names of near-by cities with hotels. she said, this was it. There was nothing between flag staff and Zion but Page, AZ. But she directed me to with Wal-Mart parking lot. She said everyone keep coming in and asking for advice on lodging options but the town is small and there just aren’t hotels. But they were building more to accommodate the tourist flow. But the Wal-Mart just across the street seemed ot be the overflow favorite. Sure enough, midnight in Wal-Mart was poppin’ with everyone there buying pillows, blankets, and all that other good stuff. So, I did the same. The back parking lot was a makeshift camp ground. Actual RV camping vehicles were interspersed with cars and trucks lodging tourists like me. Being 4 foot, 4 1/4 inches tall does have its benefits. I found the backseat of my sedan comfortable and it wasn’t long before I was knocked out. It rained that night.
I woke up like this! In the back seat of my Japanese car.
I woke up to a nearly empty parking lot at dawn’s first light. Droves of Wal-Mart campers were making the trek across the parking lot, toiletry bag in hand, inside the super store to use the restroom. It was quite the sight to see. Everyone brushing their teeth and straightening up in the public bathroom.
Horseshoe Bend
I made it to Horseshoe bend down the street from the Wal-mart before 6 am and before all the crowds. Entrance to this natural wonder is free. It’s a walk up a steep hill plus a bout 3/4 of a mile walk to the bend.It’s quiet and peaceful on the Colorado River in the morning. Plenty of time and space to take pictures. It also has the potential to be very dangerous as there are no natural fall prevention features so if you’re with children, stay vigilant.
Antelope Canyon
Now the cool part of Antelope Canyon is Navajo Nation Park. Not a U.S. National park. So your annual park pass will not get you access. You’ll have to pay separately and plan ahead (four months) and get a reservation to see the cool sights like the wave. With your National Park pass you still get to see the gorgeous northern Arizona/Southern Utah views.
This is the cool part. You can learn more at discoverAmerica.com and more info at http://utah.com/the-wave
Other gorgeous views of The Utah-Arizona boarder!
I took a boat ride through the Northern part of Antelope Canyon. The boat tours offered an introduction to all the Navajo history you never learned in school. The Navajos here had a successful resistance against the U.S. Army who was sent on a mission to round up all the American in the area. The Navajos had to be invisible. That meant, no noise, no fires, no cooking. Many of them camped out right at the top of ridges like the ones in the pictures while the army cruised the Colorado River by boat.
Now, I will admit, I am not a Native American History guru by any means. All I ever learned in school was there was this Indian removal act of 1830 then The Trail of Tears. Then Indians went practically extinct, the end. It was really sad but a necessary evil for Manifest Destiny. Cus “Murica! That was high school. Even as a history major in undergrad, I was able to graduate without the acknowledgment of American Indians. In my graduate work, one of my cross-cultural professors was a blue-eyed, pale-skin Indian. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian was part of our reading list.
Although the views were beautiful on their own, photo editing works wonders.
There is an amazing stories of resilience and warrior spirit that is at the very heart of all that it means to be American in Native American history, and I find it a shame that it isn’t taught more in our schools. Even with the resistance a majority of Navajos still were captured and had to endure 13 miles a day at gunpoint during the event termed as “The Long Walk.” It’s a collective, historical trauma that unites Navajos with a common history as well as connect the Navajo’s Long walk with the Trail of Tears of the Cherokee, Seminole, Chickasaw, Choctaw and Muskogee.
The whole region is just a collection of interesting, natural beauty to see. I took the opportunity for an improve photoshoot in sandstone. I had visions of a high fashion photo shoot of models voguing on the sandstone in stilettos with wind blowing their impractical flowy gowns with striking, peacockesque make-up. But, since I don’t have the skill or resources, I got me, barefoot in a tee shirt and Capri pants.
Since I got up at the crack of dawn, I packed a lot in. I’d been on a boat cruise, seen the hanging garden (a little bit of a letdown…it’s just leaves growing on a rock wall), went on walks, splashed by the river. By noon, I’d seen and done all the highlights of the area. I took some time to rest and relax. do a little reflection, writing, reading, and picnicking.
After lunch, I revisited horseshoe bend under different lighting (and a higher tourist population). I started wrapping up to get on the road and travel onward before I got too tired and the roads got dark. The weather changed quickly. In fact, in the span of the day, it went from cold enough to sear long sleeves and a vest to sweating in short sleeves, then it poured down rain out of nowhere, to cold again.
After the rain on the way out of Arizona and into Utah.
I think I look a bit off here, but hey, I camped in the backseat of m y car.
Bryce Canyon
I continued the journey north, skipping Zion Canyon and heading straight to Bryce Canyon. I saved money on lodging in favor of camping out in my car again int he national park. That way, I’d skip the line and be able to start my day in the park.
Just an hour north
Bryce Canyon distinguishes itself from the others with it’s natural amphitheaters and hoodoos which I never learned about during geography class. I mean, I remember mesas, plateaus, mountains, and what not but hoodoo was a new one for me. But they are quite interesting to see. The temperature was significantly cooler as I hiked in higher altitudes.
I love Bryce Canyon because it is so distinctively different from the other four nearby canyons nearby and yet equal in beauty and charm. That’s similar to the discovery I made while living in Germany. In Germany, perfect blue skies are hard to come by. You learn to embrace the grey skies just as the blue and realize that beautiful days come during the rain, fog, and snow as well. Just like people. It seems like with the relatively new, American body positivity movement that America has had the epiphany that beauty can exist in different, even contrasting forms. You can have a group of women with different skin colors, hair lengths and textures, body shapes and sizes and all of them still be beautiful just like land forms. We are surrounded by beauty regardless if we are in canyons or suburbia or the big city whether or not we chose to see the beauty is up to us as individuals. It doesn’t have to be a competition. It’s okay to love all the canyons equally for different reasons. The Grand Canyon is humbling with it’s massive size and reminds me of that there are forces greater than one’s self out there. The same force that carved the canyon also designed the wonder of horseshoe bend. The history of Antelope Canyons is a reminder of strength and resilience.
I topped off my canyoneering weekend with a trip to Zion. Since I’d already spent some time here, I could relax more than explore. I took the opportunity to stretch out my muscles after sleeping in my car and taking on some hard hikes, I really needed a massage but stretch helped too.
It was an exhausting, physically challenging long weekend. I got comfortable sleeping without fancy accommodations, learned to appreciate and recognize beauty in differences more, had my breath taken away by the Grand Canyon, and did some killer hiking, climbing and overall canyoneering.
“There is no, ‘yea but…’ response to this article. Only an ‘Ah-ha’ or ‘Dang, that’s messed up.’ This author has a history education. The entire piece is quotable.”
Then I selected two of the most paradigm-shifting quotes from the article discussing America’s history with violent protests.
The responses to the post were very emotional and continued for days after. Although the very second paragraph of the article discouraged the lecturing by white people on, “the proper response to police brutality, economic devastation, and perpetual marginality, having ourselves rarely been the targets of any of these,” individuals still felt inclined. They told me that the proper response to the constant threat of violence is to be more understanding of the perpetrators, more loving, non-violent, and by “living the Bible.” That way, gradually, after some generations, the senseless killings of blacks in our country would end. I liken that advice to child-free individuals spouting parenting advice. Such people do not have the necessary credentials of lived experience to give advice. People verbally assaulted me rather than the article. They twisted my words and attempted to smear my character. In fact, during their assault, the article was scarcely even referenced. The most peculiar personal attack came from a fellow service member whom I attended professional military education. He stated:
“And I’m astonished that someone who so strongly feels this country is systemically racist would willingly serve on its behalf in uniform.”
Then later,
“And I renew my astonishment that you would serve a country whose people, by and large, you believe to be all subconsciously racist, regardless of the words in their Constitution.*”
The service member ended his monologue by saying the only racism he sees is from people pointing out racism like me (insert thinking emoji on how that works).
Being a historian, I’m mindful of General Custer’s lesson on wise battle picking. However, with the odds weighed, I figure it’s worth the effort to address because I find it strange such a statement would be made by an educated military officer. Perhaps other military members have the same view. For the sake of their black troops, they need some cross-cultural awareness. I believe a thorough, unsanitized history education would solve many of our nation’s problems. So, in homage to the nearing Memorial Day holiday, I’d like to offer some Black American Military history.
You’d be hard-pressed to find a black military service member who does not believe America has a systemic problem with racism. To suggest that people not serve their country because they are aware of systemic racism exists in their country illustrates the exact sort of naiveté discussed in the article. It also demonstrates a lack of history. It shouldn’t be too astonishing that a black American would serve their country and still recognize the country’s struggles with racism. Considering we have examples of black Americans fighting for liberty since at least 1754, during a time of race-based slavery, it is safe to say each black warfighter knew racism existed. Are people being taught that heralded Generals Benjamin O. Davis Jr. and Benjamin O. Davis, Sr. were without beliefs that systemic racism? Do people think James Webster Smith, Henry O. Flipper, Carl Brashear, Robert Smalls, Alix Pasquet, Martin Delany, Charles McGee, Isaac Woodward, and Lee Archer didn’t recognize the systemic racism of America? Do we believe the Tuskegee Airmen, Buffalo Soldiers, or the first black Marines (who are just now being acknowledged) were aloof to the presence of endemic racism?
Two Airmen representing WWII and Operation Enduring Freedom. Picture circa 2009.
If any military person needs to look at any of these names up to know who they are, you are exemplifying systemic racism in military history education. If you can name more Confederate soldiers than historical American black soldiers, you are evidence that prejudice and racial bias exists in one of the most common facets of American life, education. If you don’t recognize any of the names I mentioned and choose to continue to be ignorant of the contributions they made to America’s freedom, that is the biggest misfortune. You don’t know, and you don’t want to know. That’s the root of the problem.
Revolutionary War Minuteman, Lemuel Haynes wrote, “Liberty is equally as precious to a black man, as it is to a white one, and bondage as equally as intolerable to the one as it is to the other.”
He shared similar views as me on racism and military service, yet when King George dared tax America, he soldiered up. I think it goes without saying that every black soldier during the Civil War “strongly feels this country is systemically racist” so we won’t delve into that war, but let’s learn the stories of black vets during the 20th century.
World War I
The song, “How Ya Gonna Keep Em Down on the Farm After They’ve seen Paris” describes Black soldiers returning home from WWI. Through their experiences in France, where no one told them where they couldn’t go and what they couldn’t do, Black American soldiers began to recognize how oppressive life in America was. This is an experience still felt by Black American military members today when they are stationed abroad and return home to America.
The year after WWI, the KKK grew and more, “than seventy Black Americans were lynched during the first year following the war, some of them were returned soldiers still in uniform.” You can find stories of black soldiers returning home from war, readying to hug their parents only to find out they had one parent left because their one of their parents had been lynched while they were fighting a war against tyranny. With all of this direct contact with racial oppression of previous black service members, somehow modern-day service members believe that the belief in the existence of systemic racism and military service are mutually exclusive?http://www.americansc.org.uk/Online/Woodland.htm
George Dorsey, a decorated Bronze Star veteran, was lynched in Monroe, Georgia with his wife and another black couple.
World War II
During the Second World War, black soldiers strove for the Double V—victory at home and abroad; Democracy at home and overseas. Victory in America seemed to be a greater struggle than success against the Nazis. Countless black veterans were lynched, castrated, dismembered, and burned alive post-WWII. The United States Military or government did nothing to support their black veterans. They came back, too hoo-rah’ed up, too proud to be American. Their fellow countrymen reminded them that they did not regard black people as fellow Americans. Without provocation, racist white Americans gouged out the eyes of twenty-seven-year-old black WWII vet, Sergeant Isaac Woodward, in Georgia while still in his Class As.
Roy Wright, one of the Scottsboro Boys, was 12-years-old when Alabama’s criminal justice system accused and convicted him of raping a white girl. Even though 1931 DNA evidence easily proved otherwise, he narrowly escaped the death sentence that the rest of his peers received. Even after this racial injustice he still volunteered to serve in the Army.
My grandparents circa 1942. Coming home from Ft Knox at the end of the duty day, my grandpa was stopped and told to get away from that “white woman” by an ignorant fool who couldn’t tell his wife wasn’t white. They couldn’t sit together at the movies. He still served.
Thirty-year Congressman Charles Diggs was subjected to Jim Crow treatment while attending the trial of Emmett Till’s murderers. Based on his position as the founding chairman of the Congressional Black Caucus and his leadership the boycott of President Nixon’s State of the Union address after Nixon refused to meet and discuss relevant issues of black American people, it’s safe to say Congressman Diggs was well aware of America’s problem with institutional racism. Yet, he still served in the army during World War II.
Aaron Henry was born in Jim Crow-reigning, Dublin, Mississippi in 1922. After enlisting in the Army and serving overseas, Henry realized the racism he endured in his hometown was not normal! When Henry came home, he learned veteran’s benefits, like being poll tax-exempt, didn’t apply to black veterans. Bigots chained him to a garbage truck and led through the streets of Clarksdale, MS. with legal impunity. Best believe he believed this veteran knew racism existed.
Sammy Younge, Jr. volunteered to serve in the Navy right after high school. After his discharge, he enrolled at Tuskegee Institute as a Poli-sci major and got involved in SNCC and was on Pettus Bridge when Alabama police attacked on Bloody Sunday. Suffice that enough to say that Younge was a firm believer in the institutional racism of America. He was murdered in 1966 for using a white bathroom in Tuskeegee, Alabama.
Louis Allen served during World War II and was harassed by the KKK after witnessing them murder another man. When he reached out to his government (FBI) for help, the FBI alerted the police/KKK, assisting the plot to have him shot in the head twice on his own property with a shotgun. Silas Hunt, the first black student to integrate the University of Arkansas and the first-ever admitted to a professional program ever in the south, was a Battle of the Bulge Purple Heart vet. He didn’t go through life without dealing with racism.
Lyman T. Johnson, who integrated the University of Kentucky six years before Brown challenged the Topeka’s Board of Ed, was a WWII Navy Officer. Because he enlisted with more education than the white officers appointed over him, he commissioned as an officer, but it was made clear that the Navy would refuse to promote and that his unit wouldn’t be making any more black ensigns. Pretty sure he received the message was loud and clear that racial inequality was at play.
A Tuskegee Airman I once met while I served Alabama made history more relatable when encouraging me to remember he wasn’t always old. He was once a young, 20-something-year-old pilot, with the same hopes, dreams, and confidence of young pilots today. He explained how he and his fellow airmen strutted around Fort Knox Kentucky in their flight jackets. However, when it came time to ride the bus home, he was in the back. When it came time to grab lunch, he had to go around back from grab and go. Heck, Tuskegee was a research project of the Army War College to try to prove blacks were unfit to fly. Talk about systemic racism. Even so, black folks volunteered to be part of the experiment by the hundreds.
Tuskegee Airmen signing my gear summer 2008.
For Memorial Day 2013, I had the privilege of visiting Épinal American Cemetery in France. Since the cemetery was without tourists, I got a very personal tour by the caretaker. He told the story of a black gold-star mother of a WWII soldier visiting her son’s gravesite. She waited until all the white gold-star mothers were directed to their child’s plot before asking, “Where is the colored cemetery? Or the colored section.” When the groundskeeper told her that they don’t do colored cemeteries, all soldiers are buried next to their comrades in arms, she was so overwhelmed that her son received the same honor in death as everyone else.
Is it any surprise that a soldier, whose mother expected that racism would still exist even in death, and a soldier who couldn’t fight a war in an integrated unit, would have the illusion that his country was without institutional racism? You could place a safe bet that her son was aware of the institutional racism in his country.
This Airman lived, fought, and died in a segregated unit but buried in an integrated cemetery. Another black airman’s gold star mother came to visit her son’s grave and was surprised her son was not relegated to an unkempt corner of the cemetery but honored with the dignity he deserved. (Photo from Épinal, France)
Thurgood Marshall was nearly lynched when he attempted to represent black war vets during the Columbia, Tennessee Race Riots that all started when a black Navy man told a white man it was not acceptable to threaten his mother. You best believe all those vets and Marshall believed there was something gravely wrong with their homeland and they still served.
Jewish-American warrior served under General George Patton, a known anti-semantic bigot (Photo from Normandy).
Mom and pops checking out General Patton’s grave at Luxembourg American Cemetery.
Korean War
The military employed racism toward Koreans during the Korean War as war propaganda to motivate white American troops to be ruthless toward the enemy. Black forces, acutely aware of anti-black racism, and not motivated to fight, lost faith in their leadership. Anti-black racism in the Korean War led to a lack of confidence and respect between black troops and white commanders. It led to failed missions and failed units. Military education and training often sanitize the story of Chappie James. “He experienced racism first hand” is as detailed as the military is will to get. Then military history education spins it as an example of, “you too can work your way out of racism just like Chappie James.” The thing is, black people have always been hard workers, but has never stopped racism.
Vietnam
Although Vietnam was America’s first racially integrated conflict, the war was rife with racial strife. Troops still experienced segregated quarters and units. Black soldiers identified more with the oppression of the Vietcong than America’s championing of democracy abroad. Although black men and women made up 11% of the US population at the time and 9% of the military community, they made up 50% of front line infantry, in June 1969, 41% of recruits, and 20% of the war deaths. Forty percent of black soldiers returned home with PTSD compared to 20% of white soldiers. Coincidence? With the draft, black panthers were put in situations where they needed to depend on Klansmen as battle buddies, often with disastrous outcomes.
Jimmy Lee Jackson served his country in Vietnam —before the draft (volunteered)…then went on to serve his country in the battle for civil rights. While demonstrating his desire to utilize his constitutional rights to vote by walking in circles around the Selma courthouse, police started beating his 80+-year-old grandpa (the state of Alabama didn’t record the births of black folks back then, so we’re not sure of the grandfather’s exact age) and mother with clubs. Jimmy led his family to safety, but a bigot shot him in the stomach with his frail grandpa and mother as witnesses. While the 26-years-old clung life in the hospital for the rest of the week, Alabama police served him an arrest warrant. He lost that battle and his grandparents buried in the old slave cemetery beside his dad. You best believe a young black man from rural Alabama knew first-hand institutional racism existed more than anyone else in the country. He still volunteered to serve his country.
White Vietnam War soldiers refused to allow black soldiers in their jeeps. Race riots broke out on Navy ships. White soldiers could wave their confederate flags (and no, it wasn’t to preserve their heritage) but a black soldier had to remove a “black is beautiful” poster. Senior officers ignored white soldiers with “F*ck the war” sentiments. However, senior officers punished black soldiers with the same sentiments whereas enforcement of standards of dress and grooming overlooked white troops with long, hippie-like, surfer-style hair. Army barbers couldn’t or wouldn’t cut black hair, yet the slightest appearance of an afro sent them to jail. Having to see, “I’d rather kill a nigger than a gook” graffiti in barracks and stalls made it challenging to differentiate enemy from countrymen. The Vietcong were quick to detect and exploit the racial weakness within the US forces with psychological operations using authentic images of US police n officers beating black civil rights workers back home to weaken morale. That happened. MLK, Jr. challenged LBJ that he could send troops to Vietnam but not to Alabama and that was a shared concept across black America. Still, all those back Americans performed their duty.
Universities After being repeatedly rejected, 19-year-old, Hamilton Holmes finally registered for classes at the University of Georgia to chants of “2-4-6-8 we don’t want to integrate” and of course, the predictable racial epitaphs. UGA’s admission staff went on to interrogate Charlayne Hunter, an 18-year-old who integrated UGA with Holmes, about any illegitimate children she might have if she had ever been a prostitute, the STD history of her family, and all the speeding tickets of her family before they would admit her to the school. None of these questions were asked of white students or had any bearing on her academic capabilities. The University of Georgia suspended the two black students after the white student body engaged in a hate-filled race riot outside their dorm. After integrating the 175-year-old University of Georgia, Hamilton Holmes went on to integrate Emery Medical. Even after all the strife that his countrymen put him through on his quest to higher education, and although he had a distinguished medical career, Hamilton decided to serve his country as an Army Doc (starting his career off as a Major).
After serving in the Air Force for nearly a decade, James Meredith applied to Ol’ Miss. With his stellar academic credentials from Jackson State, he was accepted, based on merit. That is until Ol’ Miss became aware of his brown skin. Even after almost a decade of “separate but equal” policy change, the policy of Ol’ Miss remained the same. It took 500 US Marshalls, the US Army, and the US border patrol for James Meredith to register for classes. James Meredith led the “March Against Fear.” As he walked from Memphis to Jackson, racists shot him on the second day of the march. It’s no doubt with the race riots that ensued after he started school and his shooting left no doubt in his mind that his country had a culture of racism, and yet, he still made the decision to serve.
Donald Sampson was a First Lieutenant in the Army throughout WWII, attended Temple University School of Law after the war, and dedicated the rest of his life to leading educational integration in South Carolina. He was a leader in the Army, leader in multiple civic organizations in his community, and active in his church.
James L. Solomon, who integrated the University of South Carolina in 1963, also served in the United States Air Force. Suffice the experience of having to integrate a university, proves he was aware of systemic racism.
Medgar Evers was part of the supply convoy of D-Day+1. He survived Nazi Germany but couldn’t escape Jim Crow, Mississippi. He knew America had institutional racism and still served in the military without benefits. Born on a plantation in the Mississippi Delta, Amzie More worked alongside Aaron Henry and Medgar Evers. His work in securing the freedoms for the black Americans that came after him indicates that he was not clueless to the race relations in the U.S. Still served in the United States Army.
Muhammad Ali took jail over war. Other, affluent (white) Americans took Switzerland or Canada. Ali was not offered a special duty to entertain troops like Elvis.
21st Century
IF you ask service members today their dealings with racism within the service branches you are going to get stories for days. A report recently just came out about how the Air Force hides documents to conceal its consistent racism toward black Airmen, and it surprised no one. IT only validated our experiences.
During the Hurricane Katrina rescue efforts, some white Mississippians and Louisianians preferred to suffer on their rooftops than to be rescued by black National Guard heroes. But that’s not a story that often gets told. After returning home from a year deployment, I had my Fourth Amendment denied with a 2.5-hour-long stop-and-search for “looking suspicious” while driving to my new duty assignment. I couldn’t help but think how black Enduring Freedom troops share a common history of racism as every other Black American troop returning home from war. When I found out one of my troop’s mom stopped sending cookies while we deployed because she found out his boss was Black and subordinates were Latino, it didn’t even surprise me (or disappoint me…she didn’t like brown people or brown sugar, and it showed in her baking). Even now, I fear for myself, my friends, and my future husband when being sent to a diversity deprived town in the US on military duty more than by terrorists while deployed.
I vowed to support and defend the Constitution of America against those who want to betray it. I believe in the principals of the Constitution so much that I believe ALL Americans should experience the freedoms guaranteed by each article. I never vowed to deny my American experiences or the experiences of others. Desiring liberty for all Americans is only natural for someone who pledges to support and defend the constitution.
Denying institutional racism exists is like denying wind exists or denying your own mother exists. You see it and feel it every day so denying it is just a weird thing to do. To deny racism exists is to deny my life-long American experience. Neither are prerequisites to military service. Acknowledging the damaging effects racism has on American society does not preclude military service. Because I can recognize that everyone has a different American experience makes me better able to identify with those I lead. Officers who dismiss the prevalence of institutionalized racism have never listened to their experiences of their troops or peers. They haven’t asked. They aren’t curious. They don’t care. Pity the troop who follows a leader who refuses to acknowledge their different experiences.
This is the beach from the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan. Astonishingly, a source of so much destruction could be renewed. June 6, 1944, the beach was covered in blood as men watched their best friends die. On June 6, 2012, the beach was covered in love while a mother-daughter due of Air Force officers enjoyed a French picnic.
Some people have the character that dictates that they must be treated a certain way before they are willing to help. It must be perplexing as to why someone would prepare to answer their nation’s call when that nation doesn’t reciprocate that call. However, stepping up, even without reciprocity is the very embodiment of selfless service. It’s asking what can I do for my nation rather than what has my government done for me. If that were the question Black Americans asked before serving, this nation would have fallen to the French and Indians in 1755 and the British in 1775.
However, if a person’s character demonstrates grace, has the heart to serve, the belief one can affect change and have an “ask what you can do for your country” mentality, then you serve despite the current conditions. Surely every American has something they don’t like about their country. They know America has space for improvement. However, no one says that if another believes so strongly in immigration issues, they shouldn’t be a service member. No one dare tells another American that if they feel so strongly reproductive rights, education reform, gay rights, recreational marijuana, then they shouldn’t serve, or maybe they should leave America. Constant critique of America is where improvement begins.
What a peculiar thing to say. I find it perplexing that one would be astonished that someone who recognizes and opposes systematic racism still chooses to serve in uniform.
Chaplain George Prioleau, during the Spanish American War, noted, “The men are anxious to go. The country will then hear and know of their bravery. The American Negro is always ready and willing to take up arms to fight and lay down his life in defense of his country’s honor.”
So why would black Americans, who experience institutional racism daily, be so willing to do such a thing as answer their nation’s call during a time of war, my comrade asks? The answer to the question is the same today, as it was during Chaplain Prioleau’s day—Because we are American! That’s what Americans do! It has become a cultural trait to uphold the blessings of liberty. To hold America accountable to its principals.
Bluntly cut trees to symbolize lives cut short by war. These trees are at Normandy, but you see the same style in American Cemeteries across Europe.
Service members are leaders, and getting involved and leading change is what they do. Individuals like Jimmy Lee Jackson, Sammy Younge Jr., Medgar Evers, and George Dorsey championed the ideals of freedom at home and abroad and gave the ultimate sacrifice for it. They experienced the same beliefs and struggles as the Black service members before them and after them. This isn’t obscure history. All it takes is an interest in the American experience. People lead and serve, not because life has been one giant crystal escalator, but because they believe in the ideals of America and have the hope that they can affect change from within and make life better. And then they do.
This Memorial Day, in addition to comrades who fell on foreign battlefields, I’ll be memorializing the freedom defenders, the heroes, and the leaders who survived Nazi Germany but became casualties of Jim Crow in their American hometowns. The battle for the blessings of liberty in America is the most enduring battle, and it is a privilege to continue the charge.
Medgar Evers didn’t have to be drafted. He volunteered to service during Vietnam only to be gunned down in his dry way in front of his family by a white supremacist. His body rests in Arlington.
* Please note, I never said all Americans are subconsciously racist as accused in a FB spat. Someone was telling me what he thought I believed rather than listening to learn.
It happened to be just a little over 30 days since I turned 30 and I needed another vacation to celebrate my 30th year of life. Lauren’s passport was getting dusty. I had been planning on Peru, but Lauren couldn’t do Peru during my inflexible travel window. And since I’d rather travel with friends than alone, we tossed out some ideas and based on cost and travel times. Lauren, the ultimate friend connector, scouted another mutual friend, BeBe to come along. After two weeks of group texts, e-mails, and Facebook chats decided on Panama and an AirBnB apartment on the beach. Bags were packed and we were set to rally in Panama for my first Spring Break as a college professor.
First Night in Central America
It was surreal to meet with Bebe and Lauren again. The girls flew in from Louisiana and I came from SoCal. It had been since my cross-country road trip last August that I’d seen them in person but with social media, it hardly seemed that long. I arrived five hours after the girls and an instant party in the kitchen ensued. Bebe free-styled her travel themed version of “At The Same Damn Time” while I danced to her beat. Mind you, I was still working on a Texas Margarita from the Houston Airport.
We took our party to the resort and explored the amenities until we found a Karaoke Bar! The bar was full of multicultural tourist from all over the world. Noticeable among the groups was a small contingent of cute American military men there prepping for the arrival of our nation’s president. Note to all, President Obama’s entourage is groupie-worthy. Anyway, songs in all languages were being played. Lotsa Taylor Swift was sung in all sorts of different accents. The playlist was devoid of Beyoncé and Britney which are traditional Karaoke songs. So we made do with what we had.
“Don’t Stop Believin” this was Karaoke Night take II
It was a “Total Eclipse of the Heart” moment when Lauren took the mic while Bebe and I twirled and leaped about the space as interpretive background dancers. Pretty much brought the house down and caught the eye of a cute, and all-around fabulous American woman who came up and introduced herself. Three girls having a blast and building memories with each other, who wouldn’t want to join the fun? She was there on a surprise vacation she planned for her mom. I dedicated the next song, a Back Street Boy’s classic, to “Danielle’s Mom.” After that, Danielle and her mom were integrated into our group. Now I must say, it’s not every night out that I go to bars and pick up hot chicks, but there’s a first for everything. We just clicked. It was like Danielle was a long, lost soul sister that we’d all known for forever. I loved how each of the four of us were different but complimentary enough that we just effortlessly fell into place together. We shut the bar down but linked back up the following days to share our day adventures.
The Week that Followed
Meals were the best here. Not just because dinning is my favorite way of experiencing local culture, but because of the amazing, refreshing conversations we had. We dished over stories of travel and adventure. We discussed our international guy experiences. Did Europe have a safer racial climate than America or did we benefit from our American privilege. We discussed how passports were more than just a passport, but rather a visual display of values and understanding of the world. We discussed turning 30 and gave some insight to what Lauren, the youngest of us, had to expect. It was just thrilling to find a fellow adventurer and young professional.
Lunch at the Fish Market outside of Casco Viejo.
During one particular meal-time conversation our similarities became more apparent. Everyone at the table was a young, female professional. Bosses, no less. Although in very different career fields, we experienced the same challenges.
“What was it that they called me…,” I sorted around my mind for the right word, used to describe me in during a peer feedbac half a year earlier.
I remembered how it felt to be called that. I’ve NEVER been called abrasive my whole life! I was always an acquiescent doormat! Moreover, any of my friends and acquaintances would describe me as more of a grace-granting, kumbayah-type. It was like the new word for Bitch and Bossy. Once words get called out for their double standard connotations, they got replaced with new words. I remembered the instance that I felt brought on that label. I got interrupted during group discussions so much that I decided to make a game out of it and tally up the number of times I was interrupted while speaking. Eighteen times before lunch was the highest mark. I had plenty of valuable experience to share but I was talked over. With my southern background, I had too much respect to talk when other people are talking, so I acquiesced until one occasion when I had the floor and was in the middle of an explanation when someone jumped in with a whole different conversation starter as if he was deaf to my voice. Calmly, I stated “I’m sorry, I wasn’t finished speaking yet.” The room gasped in horror. Later the backlash, ‘OMG, you told him off!” I was socially accosted for expecting a little respect.
Then, I grappled with how I should take the feedback. I should change and alter myself to fit the expectations of the group. And how was I to do that. Be silent. Again. Because my views, experiences, and opinions are less valid than everyone else’s? I didn’t do anything differently than the men I worked with. I asserted my opinion as well. But my view differed from the male majority. There is a double standard. Men aren’t told to watch or modify their tone. The difference in perception is sexist and discriminatory. We know there’s this phenomenon men seem to be blind to, but what do we do about it?
All of us had multiple similar stories. Danielle, being the boss that she is, made a decision but her decision wasn’t respected. She was accused of being emotional and unprofessional. She checked her accuser.
“No, you are being unprofessional right now, because if I were a man you’d be praising me for being passionate,” she reminded him. Gave him a little bit of something to think about.
And so that’s how you deal with it. You throw it back. You don’t accept and internalize the label but instead, offer another label, sexist, as a more likely probability. Power and fearlessness culminated in a little 5 foot 2 package. It was an empowering and rare conversation to hear how other career women responded with universal circumstances.
Diner Convos and the Future
Two years ago, Lauren, Angie and I went on a Mediterranean cruise where we vowed to go somewhere fantastic every year together. We sat down at a dinner with our South African dinner mates and drafted out our plans. Well, twelve months after that pact was made, Angie had met the love of her life, got married, and had a baby. I was being held in a Middle Eastern country as a black-listed, illegal immigrant. Lauren was on her own for her South East Asian tour. Just a testament to how fast life and plans can change. Even knowing this immutable fact of life, at a dinning table in panama, the four of us, with mom listening in, started planning which part of the world we wanted to take on next, together. Cambodia, Viet Nam, Peru, Galapagos Island, Australia the list was all over and would take years to accomplish. Then we started planning which vacations we’d take together as a couples. “I want to do this even when we get married,” Lauren said.
Looking like long-time friends, met two nights ago.
And her desire was unanimous among all of us. An unmarried 30-year-old Southern Belle is a bit of a unicorn — a cultural fact I’m often reminded of by southerners. But on this trip, I was relieved I that I was free of any life long-commitment. The vibe would have been totally different otherwise. This was the life that somehow got carved out for me and I was thankful for it. As Danielle described it, “To be around successful people as driven as myself at our age is rare. I think at our age you look for people who share your values and compliment you and your life. You guys do that for me.”In addition to having the expectation that our life-mate would be our life-long travel partner, we also wanted to continue experiencing our own girl friends adventures, sans the significant men in our lives. We want to travel with just the girls and send our guys on trips with his boys (so long as it’s somewhere where we’re not too interested in visiting with him). We want to go on romantic trips with just our beau and then trips that combine our beau with our besties and our beaux. We recognized that for us, that would require selecting secure men who could be trusted not to go on a drama-filled, jealous rage if we didn’t What’sApp them fast enough throughout the day. It would require that our guys were just as adventurous as our friends. We dreamed of possibilities and I was excited and hopeful for the future but most of all, amazingly content with the present. That’s what happened in Panama.
That time we fit seven people in a taxi.
Tram ride through the jungle
Danielle, Lauren, Bebe, Me, Danielle’s mom, & the Taxi driver’s adorable son that we adopted for the week.
Two weeks later I met up with Danielle on a Wednesday night to meet her and her girl friends in Newport Beach, California and the four of us continue to have epic group message convos daily.
I knew I wanted to go to Hawaii but didn’t know where to start. Or how to pick. So I started with some on-line research. Of course, Lonely Planet is your one stop travel shop. It’s Hawaiian page broke down what type of experience you can expect to have on each island. I looked through pages on Pintrest for inspiration then I leaned on friends. I sent pics to one friend who attended university there and still lived in Hawaii. “I want to see this lushness” I told her. She assured me I could see the lushness on any island and basically gave me the same rundown that Lonely Planet did. I reached out to a friend who recently moved from my dreamland of Stuttgart to yet another paradise, Stuttgart. And then to a few friends who lived in Hawaii for years. I got the same response from them all, no matter the island, I was sure to enjoy.
I chose Molokai for a few reasons: (1) All the hotels on Maui were booked and I few other options. (2) I read that Molokai was the most Hawaiian of All beaches. It’s Hawaii’s least populated Island and largely untouched by tourism. Seriously, the hotels a minimal and you almost have to have a host. Everyone on the island knows each other. Donald, my taxi driver, asked who’s home I was staying. I gave a first name. He gave me his phone to dial the number and her name popped up, already saved in his phone. When I talked about my travels to Maui natives, just a 30 minute propeller plane ride away, “I’ve never been to Molokai,” was the common reaction. Even my friends who grew up in Hawaii asked, “Why Molokai, no one ever goes there.” That was both the question and the answer to my selection of this small island.
You cannot take your car on the ferry. I asked and got told with disgust I cant take my car on the ferry. How dare I not know this? Well you can take your car on the Dauphin Island Ferry. It would make sense for folks who commute from Maui to Molokai to be able to do the same. But no. You can’t. So I had to leave my rental on Maui. Molokai was 100% booked out of rentals for two months. No worries. The locals give rides. And that’s how I got around. Hitch hiking. Fo Free!
Hitch-hiking is the way to get around on the island. Just start walking on the road, people pull over and offer you a lift…well, at least the locals do. You can always tell who is local and who is a tourist by how they drive. The tourists drive like they’re on the Autobahn and don’t stop and pick up walkers!
Then of course, there’s always taxis. But from the dock to my beach house and then from the beach house to the air port I lost $60 each trip. But I got plenty of perspective and history. I love talking to taxi drivers. They always seem to have tales and they know the island and the people. There’s also a white Equal Opportunity van that comes along here and there to move people along for free as well. It’s the only public transformation on the island and not dependable if you have somewhere you need to be.
A bit of Molokai History
A young priest named Father Damien traveled to the island’s remote Kalaupapa Peninsula in 1873 to care for leprosy patients. After 16 years of caring for the quarantined people, he contracted the disease and died. He is America’s first saint. Today the spectacular peninsula is a national park and a visit is one of Hawaii’s top adventures. He has two churches. I saw the smaller one (above). The Medical field is what draws young professionals to the island. It has a small hospital with about 15 beds or so. When I told folks on Maui I was living on Molokai, they automatically assumed I was a nurse.
I fell in love with my beach house the moment I arrived. My home was perfect, charming, and quaint. It could easily sleep eight people in beds. It’s the perfect spot for a family vacation. The back yard is huge! I will be bringing family and friends back to this spot. Unlike the beaches of Cancun, all the beaches of Hawaii belong to the people, thus all beaches are free and open for all to use. A walk along the shore of my back yard at sunset was one of my favorite walks.
Molokai reminds me of a tropical version of the small country town where I grew up in Kentucky. It’s rural. It features one long stretch of slow, curvy, two-lane road. Drivers have to watch out for deer in the road. Everyone knows everyone. There’s even a sandy beach on the river in my hometown. This seemed like the kind of place that would make a young teen restless and count down the days to leave, only to realize later that home is heaven and come back to stay.
The one store between my beach house for the week and the harbor reminded me of the Doodlebugs, the convenient store in the woods near my home back in Kentucky. If you didn’t stock up ahead of time, you have to go there and pay high prices for basics. It’s a local hang-out and has a take-away window. So I bought some over-priced bottles of water, beer-garita, soda and snacks for one person to the tune of $50.
Back on Maui, the beaches were packed with paddle boarders, kite surfers, snorkelers, families and picnickers. The desolate beaches on Hawaii’s least populated island was perfect for private photo shoots without random tourists photobombing! I wish I was more talented with a camera because there was so much beauty surrounding me to try to capture.
Photos: (1) Rocky cliffs that line the country road. (2) My back yard at sunset (3) See the white mass in the middle of the blue sea? It’s a whale!
Getting to Molokai from Maui, I suggest you take the ferry one way and a flight the other. Both are totally different experiences. Winter is whale spotting season in Hawaii. So the ferry ride over in the morning allowed us to see whales at eye-level in addition to the coast lines of Maui and Lanai waking up for the morning. The flight back to Maui allowed these fantastic views.
One this island, there are no restaurant chains. No big resorts. Not a lot of action. No cell service in most parts. It’s just a quiet, peaceful place to play in Hawaii. Just relax and let Molokai guide you.
It’s My birthday! This is it, the big 3-0! Saturn has made a full rotation around the sun. I’ve lived in four different decades (but only completely through two).
What does turning 30 Mean? I suppose thirty should magically transform me into an accomplished, sophisticated, worldly woman. Something is supposed to happen when a woman turns thirty but I’m just not sure what. According to pop culture, thirty is something to fear or avoid. I should continue to pretend to be eternally 28. If you stagnate at 29 then everyone knows you are really delaying thirty but 28 is still young enough to be lovable, fun, and flirty.According to popular culture, thirty is a doomsday that should be met with sorrow, tears, and an existential crisis. I’m supposed to have a psychological breakdown questioning “what I am doing with my life?” or dire predictions that I’ll die old and alone (and with cats that will eat me when I die and no one notices). Thirty is when you magically become old, boring, and busted. Thirty is for people born in the 70s…or at least it used to be…like half a decade ago! How did I get here so quickly?In search of some sort of philosophical approach to the ripe age of thirty, I turned to the trusty ol’ internet . When you Google “turning 30” the articles that appear are mostly women freaking out over this age in particular. Actually, if you Google sites about turning any age, you’ll get plenty of articles but once you hit 27, the articles seem more of an Armageddon about the pending age 30 in the not so distant future. Then, once you turn thirty you get the “oh so much older and wiser” articles like “Thirty Lessons Learned” or “Thirty Things You Should do Before Thirty.” Clearly, something is supposed to happen when you turn 30. Something big.
My beach house for a week in Molokai, Hawaii
I decided to spend my final days of my 20s in the American paradise that is Hawaii. A milestone this major should be I will meet this big something in a major way. It was after my tropical vacation that I defined thirty for myself.
I never wanted to leave this place.
I spent my 30th birthday doing exactly what I wanted as opposed to what other people thought I ought to do. There was no compromising or considering what others wanted. There wasn’t doing something I didn’t want to do just to be agreeable. I’m thinking my family has finally got the hint that I’m pretty much going to do whatever I want and scare tactics have little effect on my travel plans. Unlike my in younger 20s, time or money didn’t limit my celebration plans. I no longer have the schedule, hassle and pressures of school. I have a job that I enjoy, pays the bills, and also allows for a little fun. I have great co-workers, and live in place where it doesn’t snow! My job doesn’t define me. It’s a cool, interesting part of me, but not who I am. All the dreams and plans I made 20 years ago and thought would take a lifetime to accomplish, I’ve done…except for running a marathon in Antarctica….I haven’t done that yet. I have all I need and I’m confident the few things I want but don’t have I’ll get within the next decade. And really, I just wanted to chill, relax, and reflect.
In my twenties I looked into the future with worry. Fear motivated many of my actions. What if I can’t afford college motivated me to go with the college that offered the most scholarship money, rather than the best fit. Fear of losing my scholarship motivated academic concentration changes, what if I can’t find a way to get paid post-graduation lead to career decisions. Fear of failure, of destitution, fear of being alone only leads to settling and destroy the current moment. At 30, I’ve made the conscious decision to make the best of the present moment and remove myself from moments that drain my soul.
In my 20s I’ve seen a lot of ugly, mean, and horrible. And now I can better appreciate and recognize the wonderful when I get to experience it. And I am so grateful for the wonderful now. In the past year I have come to appreciate my peaceful, exciting life just as it is and want for nothing more. Not because I’m throwing in the towel and giving up, but because I realize all I have and all I’ve done and I am impressed with my blessings. I’m liberated from people, thoughts, and habits that have imprisoned me and have more motivation to guard and protect myself against outside forces that attempt to steal my peace. I’m over living my life to other conflicting, confining rules that you can never win without breaking another.
I’m fulfilled with now. I am at peace. Now is better than I imagined for myself 10 years ago. Different, but better. I am in Paradise. In life. Right now. That’s what my 30 means.
Each New Year I try to come up with a theme for the year. In the past I’ve used ideas like “resolve”, “eliminate”, and “pony up” to help guide my decisions. This past January, I never really came up with a word or theme. After spending a week in the tropic sun, I decided “Live in Paradise” would be my theme for the year. Make an intentional effort to guard and protect my personal paradise. I have so much to be thankful for and it has taken thirty years for me to focus on all I have more than all I don’t have. And maybe I should have gained this perspective sooner, but I certainly feel more liberated by having it now.
Looks like a postcard, but really my sunset view!
I asked friends who had already reached this milestone or quickly approaching it what thirty meant to them. Some are expecting babies this year. Some were new mommies. Some were planning weddings others, like me where planning their next trip. Everyone seemed to enjoy where they were in life. No nervous breakdowns. No worry, fears, or regrets. They were just thirty. No more. No less. And that is paradise.
View from the house I’d love to own in Molokai
Molokai by six passenger plane
I can’t get over how beautiful my country is and I’m grateful that I get to see it.
In January, I tossed around some travel ideas in my mind of how I should spend an extended President’s Day weekend. Where should I go? More San Francisco? Mount Zion National Park? Grand Canyon? San Diego? Mexico? What should I do? Half of the country was under snow and ice, which limited my travel options.
After throwing some ideas out to my young, energetic colleague, he nominated Hawaii as a consideration. “Yea! You could totally do Hawaii in a long weekend!” he said. So with his input and two weeks until President’s Day, I made the decision to just go. I bought my plane ticket ($407 from LAX). Now, I was committed.
Only thing, was after buying a plane ticket I learned that dang near every hotel on Maui was booked. Seriously, there were only three open hotels on Maui and the cheapest advertised for $500+ a day.
OK, time for Plan B. Vacation Rentals! With my luck, most vacation rentals on three websites were completely booked too. What the heck! Then I realized…it was also Valentine’s Day and Maui is the romantic honeymoon island. I’d already bought a ticket, darn it, I’m going! I might have to take my own tent, but I was going. I even saw a listing for a $400 a night teepee on the beach. With each “sold out” response to my vacation rental inquiry, I started thinking this might be my most viable option.
I got desperate lucky and scored a three bedroom beach house in Molokai. Although it was much larger than what I needed and pricier than what I intended, it put me in business. I had travel to and accommodations. I was good to go…for the most part Molokai only has Alamo rental cars and surprise, surprise (in my Gomer Pyle voice), it was sold out, along with the other local rental car companies. Taxis it will be. Sure, with earlier planning, I could have gone for cheaper. Oh well. I was going.
What a beautiful Valentine’s Day gift to myself. What a great way to avoid all photos of flowers and dinners and “We’re engaged!” announcements on Facebook. This was a trip to satisfy my goal of visiting all 50 states. It would be a beautiful way to spend a long weekend. It would be the most romantic Valentine’s Day…the one spent in paradise with myself. Realizing this made me start to question why I hadn’t taken myself on romantic get-a-ways before. Why don’t I treat myself the way I’d love to be treated by a sweetheart one day? My goodness, I’ll be setting the bar pretty high.
The week after Valentine’s Day/President’s Day is also the week before my birthday, and this birthday would be a major milestone. This trip would be an early and epic birthday gift to myself.
Being pelted by tropic rain
The remoteness of Molokai is what makes it both an ideal paradise and a headache. When I touched down at noon, I had six hours to play on Maui before my ferry departed from Maui and went to Molokai. So I rented a car for an absurd price (most compact rental cars anywhere else on Earth go for $30 a day. Mine went for $400…more expensive than the E-Klasse Benz I cruised around the streets of Germany). I explored the island. Then it poured down rain. Not a Montgomery Thunderstorm-type rain but a nice healthy down pour that would allow crops to grow. Well, this little rain destroyed my plans! The Ferry was cancelled understandable because the seas and some boat-tossing, scary looking waves. But then, the small propeller planes over to Molokai also got cancelled! Access to this island is contingent on weather!
I am stranded on Maui!
But I guess there could be worse places.
Well I guess there could be worse places to be stranded. On Facebook I posted my fun pics of me having a good time. Meanwhile I was spending a lot of energy testing my ingenuity trying to adapt to this change of plans.
A tour guide calls out to me trying to sell me excursion packages. I explain I’m not interested in tours, I need a hotel! Lisa, the guide, asks, “Do you believe in God?” I tell her I do. So she says “Well Ok. It’s going to be fine. Don’t worry. You need to get some aloha Spirit and have faith everything will work out.”
Of course, as a tour guide, she has hookups on hotels. Calls are made by the tour guide. Meanwhile, an old buddy of mine who recently moved away from Hawaii commented on my pics saying if I needed anything…well, as a matter of fact I do. Only thing is, all his buddies were away for the weekend. All the hotels that the tour guide had connections with were…surprise surprise booked! One hotel even made a reservation for me but when I got there, said it was full. LTW, the sweet tour guide at Kampali Beach Club, took pity on me and offered the sofa of her home. She had a full house with a husband and two little ones (who were fast asleep by the time we arrived) and still offered me a place. I could stretch out, use in-door plumbing, it was out of the rain and just perfect.
Morning after the storm
The next morning I woke up before daylight and got a little stir crazy. I thanked my hosts on my cute travel stationery, as any Southern belle would, and left a box of Krispy Kreams. I attributed my luck to finding a place to stay to be traveling solo. Had I been in a group or even with another may not have been offered a place to sleep just because it is harder to hosts bigger groups. Perhaps if I had a buddy or romantic partner there with me, sleeping in a jeep on a Hawaiian coast could have been wildly romantic or at least an epically funny story. But my stranded alone story had a happy ending and I made a new friend. I decided since I was already in Maui, and the next ferry didn’t leave out until that evening, I might as well travel the renowned Road to Hana.
On the backside of the island
Maui was different after the rain. Yesterday’s cloudy skies concealed the mountains. The curvy road was a photographer’s dream. So much beauty surrounded me from every angle that I just didn’t have the skills to capture it all. By 10 am I was running out of battery on all my devices!
As the roads twist and turned the land scape changed. I was just overwhelmed with the gorgeous, lush vegetation.
I couldn’t help but to wonder what was God thinking when She created both Hawaii and Qatar. And which one was created first? How vastly different these lands were and beautiful in different ways but made by the same creator. Watching the sun rise as I traveled along the cliffs of winding mountains of the tropical coast I knew my stranded situation had to be divinely orchestrated. My plan was to miss this adventure and hang out solely on Molokai. Had my plan worked out, I would have missed the glory of Maui. Maui wasn’t finished with me yet. It wanted a chance to win my heart as well. This was just another example of how God’s plan is better than my own, a lesson I’ve been learning for the past year. This event was just another reminder not to freak out. Chill. Everything will work itself out, usually better than expected. Just because things don’t go as you plan doesn’t make the whole plan bad. Catch that Aloha Spirit, you are in paradise!
Six hours later I was back in Lanai where I started. The way people talked about the Road to Hana, I thought it would be treacherous. “I survived the Road to Hana” signs lined the walls of all the tourist shops. It was nothing more than a scenic, curvy, back road like the one I grew up on. However, the travelers had terrible driving etiquette. Time after time I had head on, face to face stand offs with cars. Ummm… hello, you just passed a spot you could pull over on; the next spot I can pull over is half a mile behind me. Your move.
Yes, this place is real!
If you’re taking the Road to Hana you’ll need plenty of batteries and car chargers for your cameras and phones, a full take of gas, and a spare tire just in case. If you’re really adventurous, try biking the curvy hills…actually you should probably be a professional biker. If I were to come back to Maui with a partner I might actually plan for a night on the beach in the back of a jeep. I’d have someone else drive the Road to Hana so I could write about everything I saw and thought.
In all my years of living in the country, I’ve never seen a rooster in a tree
I told the shuttle driver about my journey around the island. “Wow, that’s brave,” he said. “I don’t; even do that and I’m from here.” Had I gotten a flat tire or in a wreck in the back parts of Maui, I would have been out of luck and on my own. Apparently, where the gravel starts is where your rental car contract is voided and you they are supposed to tell you at checkout. They didn’t.
My Maui adventure, as unexpected as it was, turned out to be beautiful and amazing and peaceful. I’m glad my plans fell through which opened doors to new opportunities! I guess that goes the same for life!
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!
