ORIENTING // I’ve been trying to understand what happened in Charlottesville, a place where I spent my childhood summers with my grandparents. There are no words and there are too many words. They’ve been all jumbled up as the waves of emotion and confusion keep crashing.
.
I needed a starting point and the four words, “my mom is black,” are the ones that keep rising to the surface.
.
My mom is black. I called her Sunday to tell her I didn’t think it was a good idea for her and my dad to move to South Carolina where they are building their retirement home.
.
I can move anywhere. In fact I’ve spent 8 years living in the South without the same fear I had for my mom this weekend.
.
My mom is black. That day when she saw me approach the white man selling confederate flag memorabilia at the kiosk in the middle of the mall, she hobbled away as quickly as she could manage, her broken foot in a cast.
.
I never considered my own safety as I asked him how he thought it might make black people feel to pass his stand while coming to work or shop.
.
My mom is black. My dad didn’t take her to visit the tiny town he was from in Southern Virginia until I was in college. I don’t think he’d take her back now.
.
I on the other hand went to my father’s childhood home with my grandparents every year throughout my childhood. We would travel down the country roads about six hours south of Charlottesville. We’d spend a week there with our relatives. I would catch crawdads in the creek, spit watermelon seeds from the front porch, and walk the long lane of Smith Holler.
.
My mom is black. And even though we share blood, because of the differing colors of our skin, I possess a safety and a freedom in our world that does not belong to her
