“Art is the way we imprint ourselves onto the world so there is no way to erase us.” - Leila Mottley
Fasten your seatbelts. Tray tables and seats upright. Make sure your luggage is stored away in the overhead bins.
It’s an one hour and forty minute flight to Chicago.
I land in Chicago and immediately feel like my brown skin has been erased. In the crowd of white businessmen, vacationing white women, international students landing briefly to catch their next flight, I stand in the crowd searching for one Black face to remind me of the home I just left.
Atlanta is a place where I never have to look over my shoulder or meet intruding eyes. A place where my hips signal that I am well fed and well loved. I move swiftly to gather my bags just to gather myself in the rental car, a moment to catch my breath.
Chicago feels like the underbelly of the south, the energy of the great migration, Black folks finding solace, creating community, bringing Southern delicacies like lemon cake and fried chicken found on the side of a brick building with no sign, only the crisp smell of hot oil. I have family members that settled here - a rich 75 year legacy where every street of Chicago is memorized. No need for maps. GPS. Only memory. Everything has appeared to be erased. Sitting at Cafe Typica, I peer at white faces rocking black aviators, adorned in hipster all black. Everyone wants to look disheveled but well put together.
Rich but hiding it. Afraid to wear the crime they committed on their shoulders. They raise rent prices so high that only people that look like them are their only neighbors and are no longer afraid for their safety at midnight.
I am out of place. I hold onto the sweet memories of Mrs. Betty, my 81-year-old neighborhood watchdog that guards our little rundown block like a hound. I think of Mrs. Campbell. She walks a tenth of a mile everyday to Mrs. Betty’s house to make sure she is still breathing. I think of the neighbors across the street with their two beautiful black boys who dance in the sun in the front yard without worrying whether or not the cops may pull up. And no matter how many gutters that need replacing or lawns that need to be mowed, I am reminded of the safety I feel in my own skin. I want to run back to O’hare and board a plane back home to something familiar. But I am here for work so I never raise my head from behind my computer to greet eyes feasting in the distance.
At dinner that night, I sit alone at the bar in the dimly lit Italian restaurant called Cafe Lula. In the corner, I occupy myself, drafting a proposal that’s due at midnight. I munch on chickpea frites, order a lamb rigatoni, and sip on a local beer. Over ordering and overeating, drawing up a long bill as if to say I belong. I listen to a conversation between a young couple that discuss tattoos in the workplace. They say they don’t know how people with tattoos get jobs. They are sitting eleven inches away from me, dissecting me, wondering how a Black girl covered from head to toe in tattoos and 13 piercings has a job. I feel my shoulders hunch over, wishing I wore a jacket, wishing I wasn’t a spectacle, tired of hearing old beliefs and old values passed down from their more than conservative parents and grandparents. I quietly pack my things, leave a generous tip and hurry home.
The next day, I make plans to meet my 75-year-old cousin, Gloria, for a late lunch. We plan to meet at 4pm downtown. The sound of her voice - sweet, inviting, gentle with endless warmth welcomes me no matter how many miles separate us. When I arrive at the restaurant, I look to my right and see her planted at a table where she bears witness to every corner of the restaurant. Tears start to stream down my face. She has aged. But her spirit is still intact. When I sit down next to her, I take her hand in mine. We catch up on family matters, discuss new baby cousins that I have yet to meet, indulging in french fries, and the famous Chicago Italian sausage and beef sandwiches. I eat every bite as if I’ve starved the past day. We sit until our bellies are full, topping off a perfect meal with lemon pound cake. Not wanting the moment to end, we mosey over to TJ Maxx to pick up a few things for my upcoming international flight. She finds joy watching me, quietly laughing at me, seeing me forget things I say I needed. At checkout she says fondly, “I was once that young too, you know.”
We walk to our cars that are parked directly opposite of each other. Divine connection. She makes me put all of my items in my car, encourages me to use the bathroom before I take on the Friday rush hour traffic. Before I leave, she gives me directions that she knows I won’t follow and hands me a tote bag with a bold Black girl painted on the front. She says, “I thought you might need it for South Africa.” I tell her I love her and plant one last kiss on both of her cheeks.
That night, I sit at a bar and am greeted with averted eyes. A bartender who only serves me water and never asks what I would like to drink. I want to curse her out. Unleash my anger. But what would that do? I would just be another angry Black girl.
I recall the moments spent with Gloria earlier. I count the hours I’ll spend on my flight to South Africa. I remember all the ways my Black skin has been held tenderly and affirmed.
Before I board, I make sure to call Gloria so she’s the last voice I hear before I depart on the 17 hour journey. When I touch the ground, Wilson greets me and says, “Welcome home.”