A little peace for me?

Arriving in Dakar felt like peace.  Not like the temporary zen you feel when you walk out of a yoga class but like an actual release of worry. And, I mean the constant concern of everything that America forces on to the black body.  It felt like I was safe, and was finally free to move about a country without having to second guess my black. It’s indescribable. My worry has doubled since having a child. I’m always worried about the impact of raising a child in America. Even thinking about that makes me wonder if she would even survive her childhood if we raise her there? Could she ever go outside in the same way that I was so wild and free as an 80s baby?

On spring break, and in the summers my brother and I would leave home late morning, and come back for lunch and then leave again for hours riding bikes in the neighborhood, playing kickball with the neighborhood kids, and sometimes we would take our adventures further like the neighborhood ballpark. Sure, our parents could find us with a quick spin around the hood, but they didn’t know exactly where we were. Even with the modernization of cell phones for kids as the norm, I can’t rely on that in Donald Trump’s America. 

It forces me to think about the way my husband carries himself and views the world at large as a product of Senegal and world traveler, in comparison to myself being raised not only in America but Alabama.  It wasn’t until I was able to break free of Alabama in my 20s that I could see how much generational hurt, and pain had been inherited, specific to a Southern upbringing. And how my parents had such a limited perspective on life, along with a small minded mentality. It is quite a feeling of reckoning realizing my parents never truly desired more.  And if they did, it wasn’t much more.

Those were my thoughts as we drove through the streets headed into Dakar. It was just before sunrise and I appreciated those minutes of calm before the start of my journey.  For one, it was the same time of morning that we arrived on my last visit to Senegal. It gave me a sense of genuinely starting a new day, starting a new chapter.

We were headed to stay the house of my husband’s friend.  It was a legit rental, but Airbnb style and we would have ten days to find a more permanent solution. From the outside, it would seem that we were winging it, but there isn’t another way to rent a place in Dakar.   If you don’t put your eyes on it, you are taking a considerable gamble in renting in advance, even when you have a recommendation. You must understand going in that the standard of living is different everywhere. As a long time professional in the real estate world, in America, the location and kitchens and bathrooms can sell the house and make or break an apartment lease.  In Senegal, kitchens and bathrooms are where the least amount of attention is placed. Over here, it's all about the number of rooms. The number of rooms to a Senegalese family is a status symbol. We didn’t need rooms. I needed clean, nice, doable even. I needed a bathroom that would suffice that time of the month when you share a particular type of intimacy with the toilet. I desired a kitchen that didn’t make me feel like I was on kitchen detail in a correctional facility.  I wanted a location that felt walkable to some exciting places, preferably the beach.

As we pulled up the place that we planned to rent for the next ten days, there was an overwhelming amount of child beggars, and as we continued to wait for the maid to arrive to let us in, I started to get a bad feeling.  I didn’t see the beach, nor any interesting places that were walkable. It all started to feel sketchy. Now in retrospect, it's clear for me to see that I was under the influence of jet lag, hunger, and eternal impatience, but we called the maid who was the contact person back at the airport. Since then we had loaded all of our bags and drove the 20 minute-ish drive into the city and then found the location, and she still wasn’t there?  It felt like a sign. I know my impatience still needs management, but when my husband started to get impatient, I knew it was real.

We attempted to do the responsible thing and call the maid again, to figure out what the problem was and she was still “on her way.”  Unfortunately, that did not work. We were tired, and we were tired of waiting. We both decided to leave and abort that plan.

A few minutes down the road I asked, “where are we going?”