Homecoming: Returning to Self & Country
“Squat five times, and cough on the last one.”
Then she muttered, “Sorry.”
Slowly, I unbuttoned my pants, lowered my underwear and followed directions given by the female office in the Aruban jail.
I wasn’t in control.
Earlier that day, I anticipated I would be home by now, back in Chicago. Instead, I was the victim of traveling with melanin rich skin. A solo Black woman traveler, abroad, assuming no one cared much about me; I was discardable.
Building off of W.E.B Dubois’s theory of the double consciousness, the dichotomy of my identity is that I was also one of the privileged Americans that had the luxury of working from home during the pandemic. I decided to take advantage of my new found freedom and work from Aruba. I would get both snarky and astounding comments when I shared that the palm trees behind me weren’t a virtual background.
“Why’d you do it?” “How did you afford it?” “You’re by yourself?” “Wow, I wish I could do that!”
This was a line of questioning I didn’t mind answering.
“I decided I didn’t want to spend a pandemic winter in Chicago.” “I moved out of my apartment and wasn’t paying rent.” “Yes, I’m here alone, but I have friends coming to visit.” “You absolutely can; my friend is in Mexico with her husband and kids.”
This questioning was more pleasant and less invasive than the interrogation I experienced at the airport from a United States Customs and Border Patrol officer.
“When did you buy your ticket?” “How’d you pay for it?” “What do you do?” “When’s the last time you worked?”
“December 1st.” “I have a job?” “I’m a fundraiser.” “Yesterday; I’m on PTO because this is my travel day.”
By the time the interrogation began, my tears of anxiety, mortification and disbelief ceased to flow, I had settled back into my body, and was able to answer thoughtfully and concisely, hoping this would appease the officers; that this was just one big inconvenience and that I would soon be released. I was much more composed now than when I first arrived at the airport. Over the past few nights, I had slept a total of 8 hours, battling insomnia, depression, anxiety, and uncertainty.
I spent the past few months in Aruba- paradise as it’s affectionately called- and I was set to return home. I wasn’t sure what I was returning to. I was in the middle of a real estate transaction that looked like it was going to fail, and all my stuff would have to be moved out while I was abroad. My family dynamics were immensely strained. And I had just learned that my estranged father was in rehab, battling addictions to heroin, cocaine, and alcohol. While the brunt of the insufferable Chicago winters had passed, I knew that the warmer climate would bring back the violence. I decided to move out the hood, the hood I had known my entire life because I couldn’t take it anymore. What’s more is that it didn’t seem like the city, nor the country for that matter, cared much about Black people. We were leading in COVID-19 deaths, being murdered, live, by the State, and here I was, being accosted by the State Department upon my attempt to return home.
More questions came:
“Do you know you have narcotics?”
There’s no easy or light way to pack for a three month trip abroad. I had everything from swimsuits, to hiking boots, oil diffuser, and work electronics. To make things more manageable, I emptied most of the bottles of vitamins I had and put them in ziploc bags and labeled them. And I hate that I feel the need to prove my innocence even now.
Caught between disbelief and wonderment, “Is that why I feel like I’ve been going crazy? I’ve been taking narcotics this whole time?” I had taken these pills for a while now. I even had doctor’s notes for most of them so my FSA could reimburse me.
“I have a doctor’s note for most of what I have. I can show you on my computer.”
No answer.
As they rummaged through my belongings, they threw around my underwear ( the cute ones and the ones I wore during my cycle) and menstrual cup.
“Can you not throw my stuff around like that?”
“You’re worrying about the wrong thing!” The main officer retorted.
I noticed that the second officer quietly tucked my underwear back into my bag.
I felt seen.
At some point, they took my phone, stating that I couldn’t use it during their “inspection”. Beforehand, I began recording a voice memo. Two days later when my phone was returned, I noticed that not only was the recording stopped, it was deleted. Thankfully it stays in the trash for 30 days.
Because of the Patriot Act, I didn’t know what rights I had at this time. And having this Black skin, it didn’t matter much anyway. I obliged every request they made, and answered every question. Yet and still, like a silent lamb, I was transferred from the American government to the Aruban government, and they decided to arrest me and jail me for two days. By leveraging my survival chops that my education from the hood and the Ivy League taught me, I was able to communicate with my tribe and give them a head start to work on my release.
The first night in jail was grueling; I suffered multiple panic attacks and contemplated taking my life. I entertained three ways, but realized that they would maim me more than take me out. The guards took my shoe laces the next day. Guess, I was on to something.
During my final visit from my attorney, and my last night in Aruba, I returned to my cell and began singing praise and worship songs. I instantly knew why my ancestors sang the songs during their bondage. Ushering in the Spirit brings joy and solace that helps you transcend your current circumstances.The next day was Good Friday, and I felt in my heart that it would certainly be a good Friday for me.
“You know we’re off today. We only came in for you.”
The Aruban investigators shared with me as they took me from my cell Friday morning. Had they not come, I would have had to wait at least until Tuesday because of the holiday weekend. After taking my story, and sharing that they had tested 80% of my things that were confiscated, and it all came back negative, I was back to the airport and made my way to my gate some hours later. The Customs and Boarder Patrol officers were singing a new tune this time around. They received calls from US officials regarding my whereabouts. They learned that I wasn’t as easily discardable as they originally thought.
Today, when people ask me why I went to Aruba, I soberly tell them I was running away. And in retrospect, my great escape was an opportunity to return to myself. My illegal detainment by the United States government revealed to me how deeply loved and cherished I am, and that while no one is perfect, they do their best and show up when they can and when it’s most crucial.
Prior to my trip, my sister and I were at odds. But my attorney relayed a message from her that kept me going, “Your sister says
‘she is being strong for you, and she needs you to be strong for her.’
She has lots of candles for you and they will burn until you come home.”
I also learned that deep love can come from anyone, even if they aren’t blood family. Coming home to myself reminded me to be fully grounded in the present, and the next moment would be taken care of when I arrived there. When I was in jail, I would sometimes wonder how long I would be there. That would trigger an instant panic attack. I would audibly remind myself that we are here just for a moment and it would pass.
This practice has helped me navigate challenges beyond that moment and remember that this is all temporary. In sharing my homecoming with others, I intimate that no matter how the world turns and the challenges it presents us, we are loved, we will be taken care of, and this present moment will pass.
