Unlearning Prejudice: Travelling while Black
Often, overseas but in America as well, ours may be the only real life encounter that person has with one of us. As people, and especially as black women, our presence is a powerful tool. We didn’t ask for this responsibility but whether we want it or not, when one of us speaks to someone that is not us, we are forced to speak for all of us. It weighs heavily on us due to the media and the imagery that we combat both at home and abroad. This is as much about changing the perception of black Americans abroad as it is shifting my own paradigm about people from different countries and cultures. One of those invaluable things that travelling teaches you is to learn while learning not to judge. A wise woman, me, once said, “Travel is life! (Read with emphasis)” And like food or sex, travel should be experienced by all, passionately.
I’m a black American female and before embarking on this journey, freedom was a lofty concept, something to talk about on MLK Day. Being the sole bearer of the double burdens of racism and patriarchy, black American women are uniquely restricted, sharing sexualization and censorship with white women and exploitation and dehumanization with African-American men. It can be (insert ellipsis) overwhelming. The balm on that gaping wound for the black girl has been travelling. There is something revolutionary and magical about travel noir. We’re the unicorns of tourism and expat culture. In 2016, we held 37 travel percentage points, an all-time high, in comparison with whites. Seventy-five percent of college students that study abroad are white. It’s a lucid contrast. Between economic disparities {there is a $30k difference between black and white household incomes}, limited cultural exposure and environmental stressors, there is simply less money and less opportunity for Blacks to travel abroad. After we hurdle the social and economic barriers, the black girl must then do her most important google search, Racism in insert country here. Barely five years ago, the US Embassy released a warning on its website to US citizens of African, Asian, Hispanic or Middle Eastern descent to beware of “a rise in unprovoked harassment and violent attacks…because of their complexion[s].” Maybe I won’t be going to that library and vegan bakery in St. Petersburg after all. Google search. Racism in Thailand. Note to self: Watch out for skin whiteners. In Chiang Mai where I live, black girls trade shea butter like gold coins. From dangerous to funny, travelling while black needs its own guidebook. I’m picturing something along the lines of the Negro Motorists Greenbook circa 2017. But this is not about otherness or even shared ignorance. This is a happy story about relief from the constant watchfulness that is the black existence in America. I never realized accustomed to folding myself into a palatable box I’d become. After years of drowning in the mirage of double consciousness (thank you Dr. W.E.B. DuBois), the voices had finally stopped. The familiar admonishments: Straighten your hair! Watch your tone! Make your voice lighter so you don’t sound angry. Smile. Enunciate, were time zones away. I felt free and surprisingly American for the first time in my life.
Over the past year I’ve been in three countries, Thailand, Cambodia, and Malaysia; each one beautiful and poignant in its individuality. In Thailand, travelling while black has its perks and its downside. Perks: Being kind of a big deal. On a boat tour of the Phi Phi Islands in Phuket, my brown companions and I were accosted by pleas for selfies. We literally lined them up and posed with a trail of fascinated Asians. I’ve had my skin rubbed both openly and with astonishing stealth and boldness (read creepy and stalker-ish). I’ve had my hair pulled by children and strangers and even been in a nude photoshoot because “brown skin glows” according to a photographer and melanin enthusiast. I’ve been ushered to the front of lines, revered as a descendant of Buddha and just generally held in admiration and awe by people who have never seen my kind of appearance. I could write an article about these little interactions by themselves. Not perks: Getting searched on flights more often than white and Asian counterparts. Self-explanatory. Also, being asked where I’m “really from” after having my passport thoroughly examined because blacks can’t possibly be American citizens. In Thailand, Black
America doesn’t exist. I shocked a room full of Thai kids when I showed them Wiz Khalifa’s video for his hit song, “See you again”. Teacha con dam!!! Translation: Teacher! He is BLACK! These are teachable moments; unique opportunities to emphasize sameness and equality despite our differences. As a teacher in Thailand, I used a lesson about melanin to teach students about vibrations and spiritual bodies and being parts of a whole. They learned that even though your arm is different from your leg, they are both equally important to your body; Oneness, like in Buddhism. I watched it resonate on their faces which were now a little wiser with the understanding that we are all the same.
In Cambodia where they’ve embraced American counter culture {neé Hip Hop} my presence was a boon, a chance to use what they’d learned while practicing English to rap songs and music videos. After the preliminary assumptions of African citizenship are assuaged *side eye*, the tone becomes congenial. “Ah…America! What’s up girl?!” Fist bump. “Obama!” Smiles. We used our time in Cambodia to educate. Racism and persecution they understood, echoes of the Killing Fields still fresh in their collective memory. Capitalism, American style, they did not. It was less than satisfying to see disappointment wash over their faces as they did the numbers. Cynical laughter. “That’s why we left! It’s nice to visit but you don’t want to live in America unless you’re rich and white.” Poverty is indeed a common struggle. We sat silent for some moments, watching the sea. I advised where I could, “Save what you can. Travel. Do more and have less. It works for me.” In Cambodia, where children are wise beyond their years, I was eerily reminded of the black American child’s struggle to thrive. I was moved. I was informed. I was relieved. I realized that when you help one, you help all and that it wasn’t altruistic to believe this because it was a fact. I had been invigorated by the experience of being unhampered by ideas about the color of my skin and was finally able to see myself as a part of the world.
Google search. Black people in Malaysia. *Shrugs*…The usual. Books flight. The first thing I do in every new country is eat. If you are ever in Kuala Lumpur (which is vegan paradise in case you were wondering), eat everything on the buffet at Gandhi Indian Vegetarian Restaurant. Get there before 2pm and remember who changed your life. Welcome to Malaysia, where the food is delicious and the people are gloriously #melaninated. In Malaysia, my skin was invisible and while my locs and figure drew attention, the stares were appreciative not curious. My girlfriend, who is the color of cocoa powder, was often mistaken for a native. It was a warm comingling of acknowledging strangeness and assimilating otherness.
I’ve always been a writer at heart but I became a counselor because I thought I could save the world one black child at a time. After Sandra Bland, I feared for my safety in America more than I already did. James Baldwin aptly labeled the emotional state of black Americans as “social terror” but as I step out onto my little veranda in Chiang Mai, I feel something. I wait. There it goes again, the now familiar opening of my chest and levity in my shoulders. I felt it when I first got to Thailand and sometimes, when I look around and find myself smiling at nothing, I am still grateful and surprised. The gash that “festers and rots” like a dream deferred in America heals slowly as the black girl explores. Country by country, culture by culture, dish by dish, she blossoms and grows. Travelling while black is the life of a seed; it’s an oasis. Travel is life!
