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April 25, 2019

Travel is the Vehicle that Connects Past, Present, and Future

Black Arizona landforms against a vibrant, flaming sunset

A 5 minute read

While road tripping in 2016 to complete my “All 50 States” tour, I pulled over along a desolate highway. The sunset views against Arizona’s Painted Desert deserved so much more than a passing glance as I drove through. I got out of my car and stood amidst absolute, complete silence and watched nature take place.

I’d never seen anything like it. Iridescence cascaded into/like an overture/coloratura across the sky. The sun painted murals on rock formations. Fallen, petrified trees from the late Triassic period, 225 million years ago interspersed throughout the barren landscapes soon gave way to majestic silhouettes accented by stars that seemed close enough to pull right out of the sky.

There I stood, somewhere between, “the bright blessed day and dark sacred night” that inspired Armstrong’s crooning and led him to rejoice, “What a wonderful world.” Wonderful world, indeed.

Engulfed in awe of the creator’s innovation, my heart overflowed with gratitude that the composer saw fit to share this masterpiece with me.
At the moment, an elucidation that captured this experience from Forest Gump, long buried in the depths of my mind, rose to the surface, “In the desert, when the sun comes up, I couldn’t tell where heaven stopped, and Earth began. It was so beautiful.” At this moment, I too struggled to distinguish Heaven from Earth. For the first time, I understood.

Surrounded by both vast nothingness and the density of significance at once, all of the people I love came to mind. I wanted them to have a moment like this. I wished they could witness this. I craved for them to feel all of this.

desert sunrise with beautiful artistic hues of pinks, purples, and blues. — *I want you to know how these colors feel.*

I view the world through a historical lens. Whereas an engineer may look at something and ask how it works, I look for clues left by previous generations to learn the story of why and document to provide clues for the next. I travel in order to cover as much ground as possible to increase the probability that I trace the steps of my progenitors but also, lay a path for descendants. I try to have many unique experiences so when others experience the same, it bridges a gap of understanding in a way that it couldn’t by being explained.

For example, I grew up in a military family. Saturday mornings often started with a G.I. Party (the military community knows, this is not an exciting event) and getting ready for school came with the expectation that it only takes three minutes to do the Three S’s. After 22 years of growing up in that environment, it wasn’t until I experienced military training for myself that I learned it is indeed possible to get ready in three minutes (which is 90 seconds more than what’s actually needed). That experience helps me relate to every American warfighter that has come before me in a way I couldn’t before. Visiting Charleston, I was filled with an enormous sense of family connection. Although I don’t know for sure, the statistics make it highly probable that someone from my family’s past walked the same streets centuries before. Even after reading Little Women multiple times and watching both versions of the movie, it wasn’t until visiting the March family home, Orchard House, in Concord, Mass that I felt that I really got to know the family. Tracing the steps of James Baldwin, Richard Wright, and Lois Mailou Jones in Paris’ Latin Quarter helps to understand their muses and inspires creativity of one’s own. The same goes for visiting the homes and frequented localities of all historical figures. It gives a snapshot of the surroundings of the historical figure, how they lived, and what influenced their thoughts. It helps to understand how they worked through some of their decisions and thought processes. I know, from visiting the Kennedy Library and Museum that Jacqueline took a cruise to Paris with friends while in college and it was the best year of her life. But I don’t know any such information about anyone in my family.

I’d like to able to know and connect with my family in the same way, but so much of my family’s history went undocumented. I do have some say over the documentation prepared for the future of my family to be able to know and connect in the same way that I do historical figures.

So I travel. I do things. I search out a diversity of experiences, not only so I can find some commonality with people I come in contact with today, and so I can relate to people of yesteryear, but also for those who come next will be able to identify with me in some way.

Regardless of France’s past and current transgressions as colonizers, and irrespective of the more impactful uses of contribution money, Notre Dame’s burning is a loss. The losses of St Mary Baptist, Greater Union Baptist, and Mount Pleasant Baptist in Louisiana and the several mosques also burning at the same time does not detract from the loss of this Catholic Church in France. It is a loss of history — literary history, architectural history, religious history, cultural history, and personal history. And it is a loss of a future. Three generations of women in my family explored this site together during a wonderful summer trip, and now, our future generations will not see it as we saw it.

The backs of a small crowd watch Notre Dame durn from afar on a hill. — *I can only imagine what it would be like: To be going about my day, look up, and see the smoke, then realize it’s Notre Dame burning.*

In the wake of the devasting fire to Paris’ Notre Dame Cathedral, social media users flooded their timelines with the nostalgia of Paris vacations. Criticisms grew that this act was merely bragging. When we grieve the loss of a pet, it is common to remember by showing pictures of the memories with them. When we mourn the loss of a loved one, we do the same thing. When a home full of warm memories is lost, we often use pictures to help us remember those memories and grieve. And in the most heartbreaking occasions, when a dream is lost, one of the ways we grieve is by looking at pictures of that dream. Have we gotten so cynical and disconnected from humanity that we confuse the human emotion of grief for bragging? And really, isn’t that the central focus on social media? A platform to draw attention to yourself?

The places we travel become the setting for the story of our lives. Perhaps, my progeny won’t give their ancestors a second thought, but at least if they do, the more places I travel, the easier it will become for those who come after me to visit and find a connection if they so wished. When they find themselves randomly out in the middle of the desert, witnessing all its glory, and they’re longing for someone to share it with, they’ll know they had an adventurous ancestor who sent everywhere and saw everything and likely witnessed it and felt the same way too. Perhaps, if the Earth is still around, four generations from now, my offspring will visit France’s capital. Perhaps they’ll respond just like me and marvel at finally witnessing the architecture discussed in classes first hand. Perhaps they’ll be like some of my travel companions and be underwhelmed. Perhaps, if it is rebuilt, they’ll climb the tower. Perhaps if restored properly, they won’t have to climb the steps and take the elevator instead. Maybe my future offspring will see the cathedral for the first time with friends. Perhaps they’ll make their mark on eternity and get engaged right next to the Charlemagne statute, under the shade of the trees. At the very least, perhaps those scions will at least have the primary source document that shows four generations of women in their family have gone to Paris, strolled the narrow alleyways, delighted in the cuisine, and had their picture taken in front of La Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris.

Renee McKenzie

Where Are Your People From?

People in the U.S. are generally less mobile than those in Europe. Certainly, you can point out a few exceptions: President Barack Obama, singer Amerie, basketball player Kobe Bryant, actor Boris Kodjoe, missionaries, and military members, and so on who have had experiences living long-term abroad. But for most Americans, the biggest move they will ever experience is the one they make when they leave home to attend college. Or perhaps they move across town, across the state, or in more rare occasions across the country. Some estimates say only 3 0 percent of Americans own a passport, thus even less than that have been out of the country, and even fewer have ventured outside of the North American continent. The concept of remaining in one’s own country is simply unheard of in Europe. Why? Because the European countries are small enough that a two hour drive can launch you across international borders into neighboring countries with different languages and varied cultures.

I believe it is because of our lack of travel experiences that we Americans are particularly comfortable putting simplified labels on other people in an attempt to categorize their background and make assumptions of their beliefs and upbringing. It bothers us when we cannot readily categorize someone — in essence, simplify our understanding of their being. I am not saying Europeans do not do the same thing as well, however, I do believe they are more aware that simple labels do not adequately classify people because they have the opportunity to come across a diversity of people every day. You may say, “America is very diverse! We have so many different ethnic backgrounds that make up Americans.” But that’s just it…at the end of the day we are all Americans with the same primary culture.

In Europe, these simplified categorizations become, well, not so simplified. When you ask a person where he is from, you can expect a variety of answers. Truly, what does that question mean? In the U.S. you will either get a response that articulates where a person was born, where that person grew up, or where that person identifies as home. On rare occasions you may get an answer that deals with lineage to another country. Recently at a Mexican restaurant in Stuttgart-Vaihingen, the owner had the strangest accent that I could not place. My friends and I asked where he was from.

“I’ll give you your meal on the house if you can guess,” he said, “But you’ll never guess.”

I guessed he was a Brit. I would say I was closest, but was I really? He was born and reared in South Africa by parents of English decent. He served in the United States Military, lived in southern California where he learned how to cook Mexican food, and then he moved to Germany for, what else, love. So how is a white South African of English decent who served in the United States military and has lived in Germany for a large portion of his life identified? He didn’t grow up with the same experiences as a British child. He’s kind of South African…but not a Dutch South-African, as he made certain we were aware. According to the article, “Black, White – or South African”, 82 percent of white South Africans identify themselves as South African as opposed to only 44 percent of the black majority of residents there. Yet only 5 percent of white South Africans consider themselves as African. Seems inconsistent right? How can one be South African but not African?

The South-Africa-with-English-lineage-Mexican-restaurant-owner asked how I’d describe where I was from.

That’s been the kicker since I have lived in Germany. Do these people want to assume I’m a tourist and desire to know where in the United States I am from, or do they want to know where in Germany I live, or do they want to know about the origins of my European last name? During a visit to France, a man refused to call me an American. I told him my German & Scottish heritage. African was the only label he would accept. African — as if that label is not complex enough in itself. The Mexican Restaurant owner talked about how he’s called folks back in the United States “African American”, and they corrected him with more accurate labels which influenced him to no longer label people, or to live by the labels incorrectly adhered to him.

The discussion with the restaurant owner led me to recall a student in one of my undergraduate courses who discussed her dilemma whereby she was encouraged to apply for an African-American scholarship. The problem? She was actually only “African”. She emphasized that there was a big difference between African, African-American, and Black American. The cultures, heritage, and traditions are different. That same year, a white South African who earned his American citizenship applied for that same scholarship, causing a stir when it was awarded to him. Some claimed he was more representative of the title “African American” than the intended scholarship target group who were actually black American students who had never been to the continent; yet some refused to accept this pale-skinned man as African even though he lived in Africa for the majority of his life. Perhaps South Africans do not consider themselves as African since others on the outside have a hard time accepting them as such. Is saying that a white person cannot be an African equal to saying that a black person cannot be American or European? How is it different? That was the year I no longer considered myself African American but a Black American.

Then there’s the concept of the Black American vice the American Black which stems from the consciousness of how one self identifies. The differences lie in the distinction of meaning when the words “Black” and “American” are used as an adjective or noun. Is one a Black (noun) who identifies with the world’s collective Black population and you happen to be the American (adjective) representation of Black? Or is one an American (noun) who identifies with America as a whole and happens to be a brown-skinned (adjective) representation of “American-ness”? My college roommate said she thought all the
Jews of the world were united as one until she made a pilgrimage to Israel. She then realized she is certainly a Jewish American and not an American Jew.

I have two friends whose identities are a patchwork of beautiful culture, birth, and residence. Annie is a first Generation American from Ghana. Bibi is a first generation American from Nigeria. They speak to their parents in Twi and Yoruba respectively. They grew up with African dress, manners, music, family gatherings, and seemed to know everyone from their countries within a 100 mile radius. Annie had both a traditional southern debutant ball as well as a Ghanaian event where she was introduced to society. I have had classmates who were first generation Americans from Senegal and Sierra Leone, they seemed more representative of the term “African American” than me. I identify more with the “Black American” whose roots are so deeply embedded in America’s history that I cannot claim a particular country in Africa, but could certainly lay legitimate claim to origin from countries on the European continent.

In Europe I find more and more intriguing stories of identity like this. Just recently in the Canary Islands someone approached my beau and I. “American Accents!” he exclaimed before asking where we were from. He called himself a native Virginian (but didn’t call himself a Southerner, though he did label me as such.) He said he left a lucrative job as an attorney after being disgusted when he discovered that justice was dependent on income. Instead, he chose a profession as a videographer recording whales and sea life in Spain. His mother was from Tenerife in the Canary Islands, and he held dual citizenship in Spain and the U.S. He spoke with quite a strange accent. He almost sounded British, which made me wonder if he developed his dialect while hanging around the Brits who inhabit the islands, or perhaps his mother was a British Canary Island dweller or a native Spaniard. There he was, a fellow southerner with a complex identity. I wonder if he ever reflects on his unique identity.

One of the most intriguing conversations of my life was with someone with an unclassifiable identity. My beau and I were dining in a fancy French restaurant in downtown Stuttgart (Le Cassoulet you’ve got to try it if you’re ever in the area). Our interest was inexplicably drawn to a party of four at a nearby table. They flowed smoothly in conversation switching back and forth from French to German. My Beau, a mildly talented French speaker, eavesdropped to see what he could understand. Finally, the most verbose of the group had enough wine to break the ice with us. We asked if he was French or German. The three men and one woman in the party chuckled. “Where are we from?” the lady pondered, buying time until she could decide how she would tell the story. The lively man’s German-Jewish parents knew something was heating up in Germany before WWII, they fled to Shanghai just before he was born.

“Why Shanghai?,” I asked.

“Why not?,” was her response.

The West had restrictions on immigration at that time. So the only place to go was east, “and who wants to go to Poland?” the man joked (or so I think). So his family, like many others, went Far East where he spent the first seven years of his life in China. When it was safe to return to Europe, his family settled in France. His first European home was France. Now he is a well-traveled business man who frequents Stuttgart. So where is he truly from, and how does a one-city or one-country response to “where are you from” adequately articulate anything about this man’s experiences?

In The South you’ll often times hear, “Where are your people from?” as if the answer will validate your existence and shed light on your character and what is to be expected of you. Sometimes people will proudly tell you the county or state they hail from or even what schools they attended as if that should tell you all you need to know of them. It’s not uncommon for folks in The South to live on the same family land for generations, so perhaps that question was appropriate many years ago. But since WWII, people have been set in motion and are constantly on the go. Among the hundreds of discoveries I’ve made about myself and the world through my European experience, I am learning that it is less apt to try to define people by where they are from than to get to know their story. Accents, bone structure, skin color, eye shape, language, teeth, and mannerisms can help gauge where a person is from but you’ll miss out on their amazing story if you stop there and don’t get to know them. Although our history forms the building blocks of our collective societal foundation, it’s our personal experiences that completes the construction of the individuals we truly are.

I challenge my readers to venture out and get to know someone’s story; even someone you think you know quite well (like a family member or co-worker with whom you sit beside every day). You may have to build relationships up or break barriers down to get past the “What are your hobbies, how many kids do you have” type questions. Wonderful soul-revealing conversations include discussions of what drives and motivates a person or how they overcome conflict. You might be delightfully surprised to find that your unassuming aunt has stories that offer a depth to who she is, and that could inspire you for years to come.

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