One of These Days

by Jetta Washington (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Peru

There is a glimmer of hope that soon vanishes. Your elusive nature has you standing in the shadow. Cultural exchange, international travel, hospitality, and new friendships are words uttered in an attempt to describe you. Words, however, never fully characterize the journey. For as long as I can remember, I chased you. "What is this longing?" I asked myself. "When did it begin? And why is it filled with so much sadness?" Carnival is a cultural heritage festival where twelve indigenous communities gather together in the Sacred Valley of Peru. A wonderfully vibrant occasion with participants marching and singing in playful banter, the day culminates with a dance competition. Men and women dramatize events by sharing stories of their past and present. Traditional garb, colorful wardrobe, and folk dancing are part of the experience, but most noteworthy is the outward expression of the people. Customary traditions are honored through collective fellowship. The essence of Carnival is in the ebullient spirit of the people who revere and celebrate their histories. It is a remarkable representation of ancestral pride at its highest height. With records of genocide, enslavement, and the dispersion of ancestors, I asked myself if I would have to travel to the uttermost ends of the earth to unlock the power of such an experience? VIP and front-row seating at Carnival ignited a spark within me. Because of that spark, a long-held interest in exploring the origins of my ancestral history was re-birthed. The search continued as I traveled through 15 countries, and over 50,000 miles, in nearly 3 years. My cup overflowed. When the plane landed in South Africa, I exhaled, I prayed and then quietly whispered, “I’m home.” Mother Africa rocked me in her arms, taking me through a rollercoaster of emotions. There was a mixture of wonderful amazement, melancholic silence, intense curiosity, disappointment, and acceptance. Tribe identity is highly valued. When he introduced himself, a gentleman of the Kavango people led with the name of his tribe. Another declared he was South African by birth, Namibian by residency and Angolan by ancestry. He was also tickled that many Americans with dark skin are not privy to historical facts concerning their roots. When asked where they are from, Africans give a deep meaningful response. On the contrary, Americans give geographical locations indicating where they were born or reared. The difference in response is a microcosm of the disconnect between both groups. Despite feeling bewildered, I pushed to learn more. Hostile stares pierced into my heart like a hammering nail that forced me to come to grips with a painful reality. It didn't matter that upon arrival, Africa felt like home to me. I was still a stranger in a foreign land, among foreign people. The negativity aimed at English speaking dark-skinned Americans stems from the long-lasting effects of Apartheid. In understanding this truth, empathy set in. I know what it feels like to be marginalized, even in my country of origin. Marginalization helps to shape how I see, live, move, breathe, and exist in America. Some natives were excited at the sight of my presence. The afternoon spent with the Himba tribeswomen of Namibia is a time in which I am especially fond of. The women and I shared stories, learned from one another, laughed, sang, played a game of dodge ball together, helping to close the gap between our worlds. Acceptance and rejection are both capable of yielding strange reactions. At times it can be beautiful. At other times it's ugly, shocking or confusing. I told myself, "One of these days, I will find my tribe. I will find my ancestral home. I'm going to meet my people. I'm going to love them as I receive love in return. One of these days, I'm going to fall in love with the land, fall in love with the people, and see a reflection of myself when I look into their eyes and they stare back into mine." Sadly, I'm still searching.