This past weekend, my friend and I attended a conference in Kentucky called Ignite America. It was a Christian conference well attended by people from different churches and backgrounds across the United States.
We left early Thursday morning from Manchester and had a brief stop at Charlotte, NC. I’d like to think that it’s understandably human to self-segregate and identify first with those who look like us - so I’ll confess that my heart races a little faster when I see a mass of black people every time I leave Hanover. My ‘black people’ radar gets stronger and I become that child in a candy store. I’ll never forget my first experience at Boston South Station after being in Hanover for a while. I don’t think I’ve been more pleasantly surprised and excited to see so many black people in one place since. I remember holding my breath, sitting wide-eyed at the steps of south station waiting for my ride and muttering, “So many black people…” over and over again to myself. I didn’t know the United States had so many…Hanover certainly didn’t.
Anyway, I digress. While I was excited to see the black family in Charlotte, one of the things that was true there, and continues to be true in a ton of airports I’ve been in, is that half, if not more, of the staff working odd jobs - picking up after people and doing all the heavy lifting - look exactly like me. The vast majority of the minority I’ve encountered earning a living at these intersections of travel are black - and it's a sore reminder of my place in society. For as long as I travel and as long as the world remains as it is, it doesn’t matter if Dartmouth works out and I make enough money to finally be able to afford the best seat on that first class flight - the person restocking toilet paper in my bathroom is likely going to look just like me - and what then?
Do I smile and raise a dainty glass of expensive champagne and toast to our shared blackness?
Grappling with these sorts of questions takes me back to the story of Moses in the Bible. You can read about it here.
Moses was a Hebrew child raised in an Egyptian household. He grew up with all the riches, wealth and comfort one could imagine having in his day. All the while, the Egyptians enslaved his people and their Hebrew blood was spilled for centuries across Egyptian sands. In time, Moses grew into a young man, and finally had to confront the conflict in his identity - born a slave, raised a slaver. I often wonder what it must have been like for him. I wonder if he knew he was Hebrew, and whether he got reminded of the fact that he belonged out in the sands with his people every day of his life. I wonder if he had to work harder to fit in with his Egyptian playmates…
I read this story as a child, and back then, I couldn't have imagined that in a few years, I would identify with this character. Back then I was simply a young Kenyan girl listening to a cool Bible story. Now, I’m a 22 year old, black, international student adopted into a society that I don’t quite fit into. Like Moses, some of my classmates’ ancestors owned mine - and I’m daily reminded that I’ll never quite be the right color to fully integrate - no matter how hard I try.
At some point, Moses cracked under the pressure. He couldn’t pretend anymore. It didn’t matter how much time he spent among the Egyptians, he was Hebrew and the knowledge that his people were still in bondage kept him up at night. In my experience, it hasn’t mattered the continent or country, black people have been and continue to be at the bottom of the pile. The dull pains in the pits of my stomach are resurrected each time I travel, because I now recognize why I feel strangely at home in airports – more so than the institution and town I’ve called home for the past four years. I feel safer watching the middle-aged black woman drive her airport cart down the halls than I do watching the porches drive past me on their way home on the hills of Hanover. I feel warmer responding to the smiles of the cleaning ladies in the bathrooms than I do my professors. And I’m hesitant to leave this portal of travel that has, for a brief moment, truly felt like the remnants of the home I left behind.
