Marching On: National Museum of African American History and Culture

Last weekend, the nation joined together to dedicate the long overdue National Museum of African American History & Culture. People came from miles around to this building to be apart of this experience. Welcomed by the first African American President, Barack Obama, it was history turning full circle.

I knew I had to find my way to this museum, not just for the fun of it but because given the racial, cultural, and political climate of America- it was a necessity. America, saying our final farewell to the Obamas (who came as a beacon of hope in 2008 for young black men like myself), embarking on a historic election in which we will potentially elect the first female Commander-in-chief (from a pool of unlikely and unpopular candidates), while still facing the racial injustice that has us stuck in a loop of 1950s and 60s. Young black men being gunned down, lives being taken at the hands of cowards with badges, and we are finding it more pressing than ever to remind ourselves and the other that Black Lives Matter. It was time for this, the perfect time. Like most people, I had my expectations for this museum and was thrilled by what curators and museum officials had to say about the it and its purpose, it was a turning point in our history. For once, America was going to be faced with the facts, the ugly and dreaded truth, with no mask to hide our cheeks or shade our eyes.

My grandmother and I jokingly made plans to visit the museum a few months after the opening, in hopes of avoiding the crowd of people flocking to it. Little did we know, we would be presented with 2 time tickets to visit during the first week of it’s opening. It was an honor to go, a memory that I will hold on to and share with my grandchildren one day. To experience this with my grandmother made it even more memorable. My grandmother, Barbara, or as they call her in her hometown of Saluda, Penny, is the great-great granddaughter of a slave. She and my grandfather came to Washington, DC almost 50 years ago, settled on Sherman Ave., raised 4 boys there, and here I am today.

We arrived at the museum, Friday, September 30, 2016. It was my grandma’s first Uber trip. We filed in line behind what seemed to easily be hundreds of people. We inched along. People, young and old, brown and white, native and foreign, all inching along the path beside this huge brown building that was shadowed beneath the Washington Monument- what a time to be alive. We finally made it in, finding our way to the welcome desk (my grandmother was eager to get the pins and postcards that she heard were available there). “Can I get a pin?”, she asked and the lady handed both of us pins. “You all have any postcards?” The woman at the desk, with low eyes responded, “We’re all out, I’m sorry.” Disappointed, my grandmother glanced over to the pile of pins on the desk and whispered to the woman, “Well… can I have an extra pin?” The woman slipped it to her and whispered back, “Don’t tell anyone”. We laughed and moved on. Finding our way to the elevators, we boarded with a host of other people headed to the lowest level.

On the lower level, we were immediately captured by the stories of Africa. In the beginning was our ancestors. My grandmother was excited to read the fine print of the exhibit. After minutes of walking through this space we found ourselves upon a hole in the wall with a label that read “The Middle Passage”. We entered a dark space that almost felt like we were suspended in midair. The wooden floors creaked and bumped with each footstep. We were on a ship. In this moment, my heart sank to the bottom of my stomach. The voices of captured Africans were heard telling their stories. The pain in their voices, combined with the sound of my boots stepping against the wood floor, made this seem like the longest exhibit of my life. Ending with shackles, shackles for children, on display. Everyone was quiet. There was no one saying no talking, but there was almost an understood idea that we were not to talk. We were taking in this moment. Some taking pictures, a few murmers were heard, but the spirit of our ancestors was there. After leaving that space my mind began to think: hundred of slaves boarded onto ships like that. Just as we had all filed in line into that exhibit, slaves filed into a ship, shackled together. Mothers disconnected from their children, leaving behind their home and everything they had ever known. It was also noted, and hard to forget that, many got on board, and many never even survived that journey.

Needless to say, I was already shook. I was only bothered that I could not take all the time that I needed to take everything in due to the high volume of people. It was difficult to walk, read, stop, reflect, re-read, and keep going. Just not enough time.

We marched on through various exhibits, taking a historical journey through the African American experience; from slavery, to reconstruction, to segregation, and finally to the Civil Rights Movement. Given the racial tension in America today, this was a highly anticipated part of the museum for me. We stumbled upon an image and quote of Mamie Till right next to another hole in the wall. My grandmother and I slipped in. Silence in the room. Not a sound, only the small voices of people peeking in to see what the hell everyone was looking at. My grandmother, almost frightened, turned to me and asked, “They got his casket!?” I peeped just ahead of the line in front of us and nodded. She turned to a woman beside us and said, “I don’t want to see that.” She turned around, pulled on my coat, turned back and realized my eyes were still stuck on what I had seen. “You wanna see it?” she asked. I nodded again, and she said, “Go ahead…” I started to walk away, turned back to my grandma noticing her fist over her heart and pain in her eyes, and I went on. As I got a little closer I could hear the beautiful voice of a woman singing “Precious Lord… Take my Hand” accompanied my a church organ. My heart jumped down into my stomach. His casket, the casket of Emmett Till, stood feet away from me. A young man that I had personally studied and wrote about; his pain, suffering, and brutal death. I stood right there. The casket that the entire nation was faced to look into and see the unrecognizable face on this boy. The casket that his mama stood before and said, “Let the world see what they did to my baby.” It was right there. This museum had transported us back in time and we were all in line to view this casket, the only different was that Till was not in there. I inched along, looking at the very fine detail of the casket as a woman beside me, startled- jumps back and asks the woman beside her, “You can’t see in there?!” Curious, I step on my tip toes a little to glance inside to discover a picture of Emmett Tills brutally beaten and unrecognizable face. I walked away. It was a face that I was familiar with after seeing it for the very first time in the 3rd grade. It was a face that the nation knew all too well. I walked back to my grandma who was standing just where I had left her. She looked at me and asked, “What’s inside?” I said, “… his face…” it wasn’t until then that I realized I had been holding my breath since the moment I walked away from her.

We walked on through the museum and those moments stuck with me. Later, we found ourselves in the Cafeteria for some good, yet overpriced southern food! It’s worth a try if you decide to visit. I write not to expose but to share MY experience. Even still, my words do not do this museum justice. Pictures, videos, Facebook Live posts, or other people’s stories don’t tell you enough how important this museum is. It is something that you must experience for yourself. All our lives, well at least most of us, we learn history from a very specific (WHITE) point of view. “He who controls the images projected to the masses controls their self-esteem”. It is important that we educate ourselves about OUR history, remember our history, and pass it along. If we let our history die, one day someone will be in a museum reading that Blacks did not exist, it was a mere figment of someones imagination. We’ve got to continue to tell our stories. This museum is a good start- but there’s more to do; we are still marching on.

“If you do not tell your story, you will be rendered invisible- no one will know you existed, and no one will care!”