By Cianna Hope
Being in quarantine for three months, with limited traveling, no official graduation ceremony and absolutely nothing to do, my girlfriends and I decided that this was no longer going to be our norm.
We were in need of a getaway. A getaway from our rooms, our minds and the world around us. It was officially the start of our summer and we wanted to do something that required us to get out of the bed and get dressed for once.
THE DRIVE
We hit the road to Vidalia, Louisiana, a population of just about 4,300 people, with a history that runs as deep as the water under the bridge.
But this trip wasn’t just about seafood. It wasn’t just about escaping our reality. As a matter of fact, it was a trip that we had no choice but to face our reality.
Our conversations involved discussions about being young and single, being young women with ambition, being Black in America and the challenges we continue to face.
We shared thoughts about the country’s inadequate healthcare system and the coronavirus pandemic that disproportionally affects our people.
As we traveled into Natchez, the deeper the conversation. We talked about the bigotry and prejudice we have all encountered– the subliminal racist comments from our colleagues, at our internships or just every day life. We realized that ultimately and unfortunately our children and their children will also have to encounter the battle of “who we are vs. how people see us.”
THE ARRIVAL
Once we arrived to C and M Crawfish, I couldn’t help but think about how we all share so much in common as friends but more specifically as Black people.
The fact that somewhere down our lineage, our ancestors were grouped together under a ship, chained by shackles and transported to the bank of the Mississippi River in Natchez.
What we knew to be an hour and thirty-five minute destination, our ancestors only knew days, weeks and even years of pain, distress, fatigue and hopelessness. They didn’t have a meal to look forward to, only scraps; they didn’t have the opportunity to converse, only thoughts of fear. They didn’t have the luxury of going back home– they were left with realization that their arrival was their final destination. There was no turning back for them, only the possibility of work until death.
For us, it was quite different but also ironically the same. Our freedom to travel was there, yet the conversation was one that still revolved around uncertainty and confusion. Questions of how long we have left to fight, asking each other where do we go from here, and wondering would this fight be prevalent in our grandchildren’s lifetime just as it was in our grandparents’ and great-grandparents’ lives. Sadly, without saying the answers, we knew the answers.
Once we made it to the park, we smoothed out our blankets and prepared to eat our delicious food we drove miles away for.
Instantly, I thought about the land we were sitting on– the land that we were around. That same land, our ancestors walked on, bound together, weak, dehydrated and ill. Images of what it used to look like suddenly flashed in my mind. But, then I just ate. Remembering to feel the freedom of what we do have.
THE REALIZATION
Just on the other side of the Mississippi River– Mississippi’s most historic city along the 2,384 mile stretch– was Natchez. The city gained popularity for its profitable slave
trade that happened right along the border at The Natchez Slave Market originally called Niggerville. Slave auctions made up of my ancestors, our ancestors, were sold to work. Under the scorching sun. To pick cotton for the pockets of white men. This landing spot for slave trade was known as “Under-the-Hill.”
The slave trade occurred along the border of the Mississippi River in Natchez. The slave auction market was known as Niggerville.
Niggerville later moved. Not because of its illegality…because the loud noises and commotion from the slave trade interfered with Franklin and Armfield, a slave trading firm owned by Isaac Franklin. He was the country’s leading slave trader and plantation owner.
Meaning that Niggerville was messing up Franklin’s cashflow, so it had to go. Damn. White privilege. Damn.
THE DEPARTURE
Before leaving, we walked along the boardwalk to capture pictures of the scenery and of ourselves. I ended up walking further down where a rusty antique boat was stationed right at the dock.
As I walked closer to see if that was an abandoned boat from decades ago, my focus suddenly shifted.
My walk became a standstill. My eyes followed upward on a long silver pole that had a banner attached to it.
I focused my camera, and there– still no movement. I captured it. The banner wasn’t flying in the wind– not one single movement. It just hung there.
The American flag didn’t fly, because it, too, was tired. Tired of swaying in the wind in a country that doesn’t depict “liberty or justice for all.” Tired. Just as my ancestors were, just as Black folks are and just as I am.
After a full day of lessons and laughter, I reflected on the drive home about all of the experiences I gained within a day. I couldn’t help but remember the flag that didn’t fly.
