My Walk Through The America I Am Exhibit

I heard a rumor about a fascinating exhibit on the history of Black America, and with rave reviews and extended talks in the waiting lines at the unemployment office and bible study, I decided to see what all of the discussion was about. For a small admission fee, it far surpassed literature and class lectures of accomplishments made by Black American Mothers and Fathers, and with that, I experienced an unforgettable new walk. Welcome to my walk through The America I Am exhibit.

 Cameras and phones turned off, the walk begins with the sounds of an African song. Drums beating in a slow steady pace as children sing along in an unknown but familiar song. I could see in this dark entrance way, the sun setting in the horizon as the men return home from the days hunt for food. Looking at the artifacts of the Luba and Senufo sculptures, cowry shells, and Kente cloth-I am remembering the land. Seeing families together, happily enjoying each other and I feel so warm and loved at this moment.

 We enter into the 1800’s to look at chains, shackles, pistols, branding irons, and “The Door of no Return” from the Cape Coast Slave Castle. No amount of words from the men, women, and children around me in this exhibit could stop the tears and fear that consumed my body. I cried because I didn’t want to go through those doors as if I saw what was on the other side once before. I knew what was to come and I couldn’t bare to go through that moment again. My arms and legs weighing heavy in that position as I starred at the doors now placed behind a Plexiglas display. I wanted to run back but I couldn’t stop starring at that door. I couldn’t remember their faces, but I remember their spirits- how they smelled and felt, and I knew that once I entered these doors I would never see them again. The separation has begun and I have to continue this walk through because it is not over yet. But oh how I wish to had that memory of before “the door” back.

 Walking through the years, you can’t help but stop and exam each and every single artifact displayed. And the feeling was as if we were reviewing the pieces to make sure that it didn’t belong to a loved one or even us in a past life. I looked at the clothes of the slave’s, the brushes, the mirrors and I wanted to know if it belonged to me before my departure from the master’s home. Did I use this or even touch it once before?  As I looked at books written by authors like Carter G. Woodson and Booker T. Washington, I over heard a woman state to her friend with a laugh, “Makes you not want to see any white folks don’t it.”  I had to turn around and look at her because her comment sounded like a person of today built on ignorance and close mindedness. I had to wonder if she had ever read those books in front of me and if so- what was she doing to educate and empower the unenthused children with her whom were walking by the artifacts in boredom. It look as if those children would much rather be some where listening to a song about Birthday Sex then listening to the drums of their forefathers, which saddens me but I could only hope that the energy felt in the room was making an impact.