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I tried to squeeze past a group of Dutch tourists who crowded around a case of bronze and brass African artifacts, not before an older black woman grasped my shoulder and whispered to me in English, “Take your time here and be sure to look at everything!” Her eyes were wide and serious, but slowly the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she turned back to the group, leading them to the adjoining exhibit room. Her voice this time, now having switched back to Dutch, was bolder, fuller, commanding even, as she continued her guided tour. I watched as the last member of their group trickled out of view and I stood alone within the red painted walls of the Kingdom of Benin, the first section of the Kurá Hulanda museum. My interaction with her was not unique. Since I had arrived in Curaçao, I encountered many other black women whose physical demeanor were so rehearsed and perfect in order to service the multitude of European and American tourists visiting the island country. But when our eyes met one another, it was like we spoke a native language quietly among ourselves. “I see you,” it seemed to have confirmed. “I see you, in all of your blackness. Now see mine.” It has become tradition for me during my travels to visit the spaces that demonstrate a country’s ties and connection to the African diaspora. It started the year prior during a trip to Sweden where the Nobel Prize Museum held a tribute to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I wasn’t even supposed to be in Sweden, however my flight from New York to Oslo was canceled and I wanted nothing more then to be gone as soon as possible from this concrete tomb in time for the new year. “Just get me on a plane tonight,” I begged the airline, “and I’ll figure out the rest.” I will admit the irony of having visited a predominantly white European nation, whose involvement with the African slave trade was adolescent and short lived compared to other nations, to incite within me to inquire about the global narrative of the Black/African experience. "Is not me being black, enough?", I assumed. Curaçao proved me wrong, in that you can be of a group, a global group, and still not know how to connect with it. I continued my tour through the museum until I arrived at an open sculpture garden where a large bronze statue stood before me. The day was blistering hot, but a cool breeze could be felt from time to time. Continuing around the statue, I could make out its details and features a little more clearly: it was that of the African continent merged with a woman's face jutting from the right side. The garden was quiet, and yet around and within it were relief sculptures and statues of slaves shackled and frozen in time, the contrast of silence and bloodied history making it difficult for me to feel entirely comfortable at that moment. Unsettled, I noticed a small hut off to the side. I entered it and again, the contrast of seeking shelter from the sun with realizing that this was where whipped and sick slaves were housed reminded me that this experience is not to be consumed as a typical leisurely stroll. Inside, a sign hung beside African masks meant to ward off evil. One line read: “By projection, one hopes to get rid of negative emotions or at least be enabled to handle them better. Western psychotherapy has adopted this method.” We have, I agreed, but not sure to whose benefit it really served. I mean, it’s not like I could deny my African roots, because as a black woman, what part of me is not in fact trying to just enable myself to handle ANYTHING better? And more importantly, for who’s comfort sake? I suddenly felt tired. I didn’t rush to leave the hut. I wasn’t ready for the sun yet. After all, out of all the places in the museum, the hut felt like the most rational spot to breakdown and experience an identity crisis.