American Shame: Travel Meets Politics
I’m Black, female, and American. When it comes to being Black and female, I am wholly unapologetic. It’s the American part that catches me up when I’m out in the world. As of today, there are 195 countries in the world, I can travel to 183 of them without a visa. What is the cost of the power that my American passport gives me? This is a question that I frequently ask myself. I wonder if the world will consider me more valuable based on that precious blue book. The crazy thing is that I never really know the answer. What I do know is that I feel that there’s an unremovable stain that comes with my nationality.
The American Stain
I think that for every country that looks at America with love in her eyes, there are 2 more who cringe at the thought. To be American is to be too much and too little all at once. American means that you are much too loud, much too big, and much too blind to what happens outside of your borders. There’s too little concern for the 99%, too little value on education, and too little restraint. Basically America is the big stupid bully in the global school yard. That’s the stain. I used to equivocate, excuse, and deny these things because I was taught that to be American is to be great.
My Shame
When did I first realize that I was ashamed to be an American? I was just shy of 16, George W. Bush was in office, and someone flew planes into buildings I’d never given a second thought before that day. My shame didn’t come with the attacks. It didn’t come as I sat outside that night noticing that there was zero air traffic over my impossibly small town in west Tennessee. My 16th birthday rolled around, but there was no excitement. Sometime after that shame blossomed in my chest right next to the seed of righteous indignation.
What did a 16 year old Black girl in rural western Tennessee know of shame and indignation. If I’m honest, it wasn’t a great deal then, but it grew over time. I learned that my precious America had more blood on her hands than chattel slavery, and genocide. She didn’t stop there, and she meddled in the affairs of other countries. The idea of American greatness made enemies wherever it was sown under the guise of democracy. I was ashamed because it was then that I knew I was inadvertently standing at the side of a bully.
Get Angry
I went to college, and a rather elite one at that. My cushy college experience is when I got angry. I chose to take of my blinders. The more I learned, the more angry I became. My America had committed unconscionable acts. In my eyes, she went from bully to monster. American was a dirty word at that point. I wasn’t African American, just call me Black, consider it my “out damned spot” moment if you will. The stain of America’s actions couldn’t be scrubbed and washed away. Once I knew, it wasn’t possible to forget. My hunger to travel the world grew. Back then I didn’t consider what it would feel like to carry my shame like some must have travel item.
Fast-forward
18 years later, I sit here more ashamed to be an American than I have ever been before. I long to be fluent in other languages so that when I’m abroad no one knows that I’m a Black woman from America. I’d rather they argue and try to name the other places I must be from.
Who would want anyone to know that they come from a country that places people, who just want a better life, in concentration camps? Why would anyone volunteer that they come from a country filled with people who feel that anything other than whiteness is undesirable? What would inspire someone to step up and say “I’m American” when the destruction caused by their motherland is visible around the world? At this point in my life, my only answer is desperation. I’d have to be desperate to admit that America is my home.
Why Don’t You Leave!?
Someone will stumble upon this piece, and they’ll think “If she hates America so much, why doesn’t she leave”. Maybe it’s you that’s thinking that very thought at this very moment. Since I’m not required to explain myself, I’ll leave you with this…I’m working on it. Leaving is at the top of my list of things that I’m working toward. Also let’s be real, leaving is a minor solution. I’ll still be American, and I’ll still hold an American passport. Leaving America is like escaping the South during slavery. You’re no longer in the fire, but you can still feel the heat.
