Breath
A story about me, my grandfather, and Van Jones
11.7.2020
I inhale a sharp and sudden inhale waking up on my couch at 7:30 am. An indent from the weight of my body is beginning to form. I’ve been sleeping on this couch for the past four days. I stare at the coffee table a few feet away through half closed eyes. At least it used to be the coffee table. It is now my makeshift desk, that holds my school stuff: primary colored notebooks, noise canceling headphones, textbooks, a laptop, a hotspot, beef jerky, a half-full mug of black tea, and an empty mug. Looks can be deceiving — despite the façade, there was no work happening here. I am at the mercy of the news cycle… waiting for an update.
It’s not just me. My friends, my family, my partner are all at the mercy of the news cycle. It’s unavoidable: morning podcasts with a side of coffee; carefully curated *dings* on their phones from news apps jockeying for attention; open tabs on laptops refreshing every few moments; TV and radio stations making projections while fingers, ears, eyes and minds ingest, digest, and wait.
I check on my partner in the other room at 8:15 am PST. She is sick with something — we hope it’s just a bad cold. That said, all week we’ve been waiting and hoping for a negative COVID test result. With every cough, every sneeze, every sniffle, I find myself wishing with more urgency: PleasedontletitbecovidPleasedontletitbecovidPleasedontletitbecovi —
— I hear the CNN app on her phone announcing the next President of the United States. In an awkwardly choreographed moment which involved masks, windows opening and a touch of anxiety, we sprinted into the living room and turn on the TV. As I stare at the screen I feel my vision begin to blur as my eyes well with tears, a sensation I hadn’t experienced since 2008 when I voted in my first election.
I was younger, more hopeful, less inclined to rattle off a list of issues in the world. Despite the flaws in some of his policies, Obama’s election symbolized a future to be excited for. Seeing the first Black president-elect can convince you of that, especially in a country with as deep a racial history as the United States. Especially as a young Black man trying to figure out his own place. Seeing my reflection sworn in to the White House changed my life. When I cried on election night in 2008 I felt like maybe we would be o —
Van Jones, a CNN commentator, was just asked the question, “What are your thoughts?”
Translation: How do you articulate the global pandemic, rising infections, deaths, rising global temperatures, fires, police brutality, unmarked police vans illegally detaining citizens, the killings of unarmed African Americans, subsequent protests, and an election during which the President of the United States refused to condemn white supremacy into a 2 minute sound bite that will be immortalized forever?
He clears his throat before he speaks, “Well…it’s um…” I watch as he struggles to find the right words for one…two…three…four…five…six seconds. Those six deafening seconds of silence were a more suitable response to the question than any words would have been.
I imagine Van Jones wondering, How should I answer this?
As a man? 𑁋 All people have made their voices heard loud and clear in this election…
As a Black man?𑁋For the African American Community…
As a lawyer?𑁋 Although we can celebrate, we must recall nothing is finalized until the Electoral College convenes…
As a former member of the Obama Administration?𑁋 This takes me back to 2008 when…
As a Democrat?𑁋 This is a huge victory for the left…
With each presented solution an actualized response drifted further away.
During those six seconds, I became aware that either I was holding my breath, or my breath was being held. It was a feeling that had gradually impinged my life over the last four years. And now, during this moment of silence, I felt the vacuous tingle beginning to stab my ribs. It was as if I knew the asphyxiation of a nation was coming to an end. If I knew this, you could bet that that which choked, choked with greater determination.
Van Jones raises his eyebrows as if to say, Where do I begin? and responds as a father:
It’s easier to be a parent this morning.
He continues to share his thoughts. I attempt an unsuccessful breath, and find myself thinking about my grandfather, Robert Foster, who moved away from the asphyxiating world of the Jim Crow South in search of a better life for his family.
Robert Foster was one of 6 million African Americans who lived in the South and journeyed to Northern and Western cities across the United States in what was known as the Great Migration. His story is highlighted in the book, The Warmth of Other Suns, by Isabel Wilkerson.
Unable to have the life he wanted for both himself and his family, he made the decision to leave the South behind and move West to California. He was determined to get West and fight to build the life he wanted for his children.
Van Jones continues,
Character matters…it matters.
Two generations after his journey, here I stand. And although I am living in a different time, it is an all too similar country.
Over the summer I visited the Muir Woods — just north of San Francisco, CA — with my childhood friend, Paul. After hiking through the forest, we made the decision to walk down to Muir Beach, a roughly 3 mile hike. There are multiple trails you can take, but with night approaching fast, we decided to walk along the side of a two-lane road.
About three quarters of a mile away from the beach the road intersects with another two-lane road. In a moment of childishness, regressing to our competitive high school athlete days, I give a quick glance at Paul, and we started running, racing each other towards the water. After a couple hundred yards I turned back to see I had a semi-comfortable lead. Past experience has taught me to not get complacent. I upped my pace.
My grandfather traveled down a two-lane highway which dipped and curved away from the desert oasis of Phoenix, Arizona. By this point he was beginning to feel the weight of the 1500 mile drive, and he still had a significant distance to cover before he made it to California. He thought about turning back to Phoenix and finding a place to sleep for the evening, but after a glance in his rear view mirror he saw no signs of Phoenix. At this point it would cost him too much time to turn back, he would have to make do finding a motel along the way. He knew better than to get complacent. Previous stories of Black travelers making the journey before him and a life spent living in the Jim Crow South provided him with a mental list of dos and don’t. He carried on at his pace, looking for a motel.
…and people who have been afraid to show their racism to you are getting nastier and nastier to you.
I kept running. Suddenly, I was illuminated by the headlights of a burnt red pickup truck. Instinctively, I hugged the side of the road a bit tighter. But, as the truck passes me I hear a voice yell out the window,
“You better run, boy!”
I choked. I stopped dead in my tracks, (Paul ran past me), turned around and flipped the driver off. Then I just stood there, in the middle of the road, unsure of what to do next. Part of my brain told me to continue running — yeah, I would have run — I just didn’t know which direction to run. It was like I was in some sort of choose- your- own- adventure story and the person in charge of my fate had fallen asleep –
My grandfather came across a bunch of motels, all showing vacancy signs. He pulled into the first motel parking lot, wiped the sweat and dust from his face, the wrinkles from his shirt, and walked into the lobby to ask for a room. The receptionist told him the room had just been rented.
— When I relive that moment I always imagine running after the pick up truck, catching up to it on the drivers side and…
Being a good man matters.
I bring myself out of the memory and my rational side finishes the story. I don’t react with violence, because if I do, they’ve won. If I show any sort of reaction, or acknowledgement of what he said, they’ve won. The driver has the satisfaction of knowing they got to me. I’m simultaneously tasked with processing what has just occurred and not thinking too deeply about it.
Although my grandfather knew he was being fed a lie (he was the only car at many of the motels), he never reacted negatively when he was refused a room. He thanked the concierge for their time and drove on to the next one.
…and you’ve spent so much of your life energy just trying to hold it together.
He tried another motel only to be told the same thing. As he pulled away from the lot he could see the vacancy sign in his rear view mirror, mocking him as he left. He tried another and was met with the same excuse. He tried every motel that lined the road the night, and was turned away from all of them, so when he arrived at the last motel he came up with a speech. Prior to entering the lobby, he practiced his speech out loud. When it was refined, he walked inside and made his case:
“I’m looking for a room. Now, if it’s your policy not to rent to colored people, let me know now so I don’t keep getting insulted. It’s a shame that they would do a person like this. I’m not a robber. I’ve got no weapons. I’m not a thief. I’m a medical doctor. I’m a captain that just left Austria, which was Salzburg. And the German Army was just outside of Vienna. If there had been a conflict, I would have been protecting you. I would not do people the way I’ve been treated here. I have money to pay for my services. Now, if you don’t rent to colored people let me know so I can go on to California. This is inhuman. I’m a menace to anybody driving. I’m a menace to myself and to the public, driving as tired as I am.”
-Isabel Wilkerson, The Warmth of Other Suns
Worried about what competitors would think, yet another desk manager turned my grandfather away from their motel. With no options left, he continued driving.
I find myself wondering what was going through my grandfather’s mind that evening. Was he aware that the next portion of his drive would be a poorly lit switchback mountain? Did he think about the concerns of his family back home? Given the most recent events he experienced and the sheer exhaustion from driving I imagine California must have seemed farther away at that moment than it did at any other point in his journey. Did he consider turning back? With so much space, did he feel any less suffocated traveling out here?
Before he could consider his next move he stopped to fill his gas tank. An attendant came outside and asked what my grandfather needed. At that moment, my grandfather was only able to speak a few words. The recent events in combination with the drive had pushed him to his breaking point. He broke down in tears.
The attendant placed his hand on my grandfather’s shoulder and listened. He gave him a cup of hot coffee and filled up his tank. In a moment of desperation, my grandfather was greeted with kindness. This seemingly inconsequential moment in the gas attendant’s life may have been one of the most significant moments in my grandfather’s journey. Away from family, friends, and the asphyxiating grip of Jim Crow South, he found himself in an unknown world, a world different from what had been described to him back home, a world described through stories, passed down like a game of telephone. And in this unknown world, he found a small moment of kindness and respect. These things fueled his soul as he pulled out of the service station and continued his journey into the night towards California.
I like to imagine, as he made his way West, he passed a broken down burnt red pick up truck.
For a whole lot of people it’s a good day.
Saturday
I’m brought back to my present reality as Van Jones finishes speaking. I wipe away whatever tears my mask has failed to absorb. And just like that, we’re no longer waiting. With one announcement, CNN has waved a magic wand over the country and everything simultaneously changes and remains the same. I am mentally exhausted. I don’t feel connected to a community, and going outside is stressful due to the imminent threat of COVID, cops, and careless caucasians. Yet, despite all of that, for the first time in over a year, I feel like I can exhale. The pressure in my chest has released, and I feel free to breathe out the events of the past year that I’ve locked away.
So, no, I didn’t cry because Joe Biden won. I cried because his election represents a rejection of the last four years. It’s the best that America can do right now. Can it be better? Of course; there’s always room for growth, but it’s a step in the right direction.
I allow myself a brief moment of respite. I’m pretty overwhelmed by everything. I allow 11.9.2020 to become a Saturday morning in November, like any other Saturday: with my partner, masks on, watching TV. For a few moments I can convince myself of this reality. Only a few.
As I sit on the couch reeling in the aftermath of my thoughts, the previous moments ricocheting inside my mind, I think back to the first thing Van Jones said, “It’s easier to be a parent today.”
After my grandfather made it to California, he settled in Los Angeles with his wife and children. I imagine him waking up the next morning thinking something similar to what Van Jones said.
I imagine him taking in a slow deep breath in. The images of the last year playing in his mind’s eye.
He exhales.
