Packing My Bags & Leaving My Reservations

Recently I met a darling friend for coffee and we began chatting about my upcoming road trip this Summer. An annual road trip is something my family of 5 does for many reasons. To save money (we spend on one road trip visiting many places what would spend on air fare just visiting one), we discover something new along the way, things we would most likely miss otherwise, and we spend tons of time together. TONS.

My friend asked me where I was heading this year.  ”Texas. We’re going to head out of New York, make a stop in Washington, DC…”

“Ooooh. You’re going through the South.”

Her face cringed, her eyes filled with sudden concern for me, while at the same time demonstrating the effects of a bad memory coming to surface.

She proceeded to tell me about her visits to the South and shared some horrifying stories of verbal attacks from strangers she encountered either alone or with her ex-boyfriend, who is black.

And she feared for me.

I love this friend. I call her my sister, because she “gets me”. And we are alike in many ways. We are both mothers, and though she is now a single mom, I, having experienced that role in my lifetime, can relate and empathize with a lot of her daily struggles and triumphs.

We look the same. Both have the kind of brown complexions that outside of New York City can confuse the heck out of anyone not familiar with the racial diversity of the Latina community. And though she associates more with being black because of her father, she looks Latina, like her mother.

And we both also share a desire to embrace the world, even the one that pre-labels us, or judges us, or limits us, or stereotypes us because of our names or what we look like. We want to be positive role models for the conversation on race relations in this country.  We want to turn our experiences into educational stepping points towards awareness.
But in this moment, the flush of bad memories overtook her, and as she shared her stories with me I became sad and angry for her.

“Oh my God. The South is so different. People will think you’re Mexican because they are unaware of there being any other type of ‘hispanic’, and they won’t care to know. They’ll really be confused when you walk in with your white husband and your brown and white babies. Black people there still don’t make eye contact with the White. Our strong, outspoken personalities are not welcomed there, not even by other people of color, because it gets people killed, or injured.” Her stories, her bad experiences didn’t happen 10 years ago.  She experienced them not even two years ago and they were fresh.

Then she said, “You are very brave.”

And she said this not in that she felt I was in danger of being physically harmed, though I suspect it might’ve crossed her mind as a possibility, but rather in that I am willing and knowingly entering an environment known for its racial tension, its lack of open-mindedness, and most of all, its lack of diversity.

My family is a walking rainbow of mixed languages, colors, and backgrounds. My husband and I fell in love from the things we came to discover and learn about each other, not from the things we thought we had in common, which we doubted even existed, but soon came to realize do.

And I told my darling friend, that I suspect that most people of color in listening to me speak with excitement about my upcoming travels through Memphis, Nashville, and different parts of Texas, think me naive or unaware.

But I am not. I am very much aware of who I am. What I look like. How different I am to my surroundings.

Here in New York I rarely think of it, but when I travel these differences are brought to light, not due to my insecurities, but because it is the topic of many conversations with the people I meet.

“Where are you from?” “Where is that?” “You speak English so well?” “When did you arrive to the United States?” “You have such an exotic look.” And on and on and on.

I have heard it all, and as a travel-blogging, Latina of color, I expect to hear more. If given the chance, I will answer all the questions, and share the beauty of my culture, how I incorporate that into my family, and welcome them to experience the country of my fathers some day. I might even promise them a home-cooked meal should they ever find themselves in NYC. It’s what I do. It’s how I deal.

“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked me.

Yes. I am afraid of hearing something so hurtful and so mean, that I will react ignorantly and defensively.

But I am a traveler. It’s my passion. It’s what I do. In all the travel shows I watch on television and all the magazines and books I read from other travel writers I admire and look up to, none look like me.  If they are women, and there are very few, they are not Latina, and if they are Latina, though I have yet to really meet one, they are not of color. No one, in the travel-writing, travel documenting world is telling my story, the story of other traveling families like me. And because no one is telling the story, people are too afraid to expand their horizons, or set limitations based on a stereotype and fear.

So, I pack my bags and leave behind my reservations. Because the only serve to inhibit me.

I wish I could say that when I travel I wasn’t aware of all these things, but then if I wasn’t aware it would mean I wasn’t taking in the entire experience. My senses are at their peak when I travel and that is why I am addicted to it. I am not sure that my traveling rainbow family can change the world with just entering a town or a restaurant not used to seeing a mix like ours, or people like me. But my hope, and that of my husband, is that we leave a positive mark, even if just with one person, and plant the curiosity of the world outside of their own. If we could bring awareness, even just in this very small way, then there is hope that when my children travel back with their family, the conversation I had with my friend will never take place beforehand.

This post was originally published on my profile blog at MatadorNetwork.com.

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Tags: road trip, travel
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