Searching for Home: Autoethnographic Reflections of a Black Girl

Introduction

Humans are storytelling beings. Our experiences are translated into stories—memories that influence our perception of the world, our identities, and shape our interactions with those around us. Autoethnography tells the story of the self and connects it to “outside” elements—those that are cultural, political, and historical (Boylorn, 2008; Ellis et al., 2011). In performing these stories, we become connected to the “other” (Ellis, 1998) and begin to think “with and through” our lived experiences (Holman Jones, 2016). Theorizing through story allows us to ask questions of ourselves toward a (re)imagining of our worlds, As Boylorn (2014) shares with us, “Our stories are not our own, and we constantly negotiate entrances and exits in the stories of others and in the delicate balance between our public and private lives. Our life stories often mimic the way our lives are lived: layered, complicated, interconnected, with blurred lines of distinction” (p. 46). Through engaging auto-ethnography, from a critical perspective, I share my own stories of silence, isolation, grief, fear, loss, and rediscovery as a Black woman in a world where the values of patriarchy, capitalism, and White supremacy run rampant (Hobson, 2017). Through narrative performance I trace some of my experiences of race, place, gender, childhood, as I transition into adulthood. Hill Collins (2000) and Denzin (2016) both articulate the necessity of centering the experiences of historically marginalized groups in our collective accounts and (re)membering of society toward “…emancipatory visions…visions that inspire transformative inquiries, and for inquiries that can provide the moral authority to move people to struggle and resist oppression” (p. 8). While I do believe these stories most resonate with the experiences of other Black women, I call in audiences of all races, academics and non-academics alike, to engage and reflect on their positionalities (Boylorn, 2015). In their own storied reflections, Dillard & Neal (2021) share, “(Re)search for Black women begins with a deep, persistent search for oneself, one’s humanity. It is a spiritual desire to (re)member who we are and whose we are, a courageous search again in the mind, body, and spirit” (1184). These stories trace parts of my path of (re)memberance.

Searching

Like many others, I have been searching for my home. Each day I wake up, yank away my blue, floral-patterned comforter and I know that as soon as both feet hit the ground the search will begin again. It never really stops, though, because even in my aimless attempts to sleep, I am still thinking about how to get back home. This morning was no different. I opened my closet and meticulously searched through the hanging garments. Unsure what the day might bring, I settled on the color white. I yanked my pants up over my ankles first, then my thighs—the thighs I got from eating too much cornbread and yams at the home I used to know. As I wiggle into my pants, I think about my grandmother’s cooking. Coming no higher than my shoulder, she would nudge my back, “Little girl. You got the rest of ya’ life to worry about what you look like. Git in there and gitya some more of them neckbones and rice.” She was one of sixteen and far from a stranger to cooking large meals. And most of those meals required everything to be smothered in gravy. I wonder if I will ever make it back home to learn to cook like her.

I pulled my blouse on and buttoned it to the top, making sure that every wrinkle and every crease had been removed like she taught me. Every night she would iron our clothes, along with her husband’s work uniform. He drove trucks and would often take us with him on the shorter rides with him. I remember the musk of the truck, along with the faint smell of spam sandwiches drenched in yellow mustard that we would eat while we sat in the back and counted the number of cars that drove by. It was on those truck rides that I would dream about the days that I was old enough to drive. I would go as far as I could. I didn’t know if I’d come back.

I pushed aside these memories and carefully pulled on my shoes. Anxious to leave, I moved to the bathroom to decide what to do with my hair. Thick, dark, coily hair that hurts to even think about combing sometimes. It is in this moment that I think about mommy. She would tell me, “Beauty is pain. Stay still and stop crying, before I give you something to cry for!” This morning I decided on a low bun. It matched my white ensemble perfectly. I pull the cabinet opened, grabbed some gel and a brush and slicked my hair back as neatly as I could. As I restrained each dark coil with the strategic placement of about thirty bobby-pins, I felt like I was better prepared to continue my search.

After finishing my hair, I retreated back to the room to finish dressing myself for the day. I reached into the wooden drawer and pulled out my larynx. I keep it in a place that I can access it easily, because in this place I never know when I might need it. I glanced over at the one I used to use, the one I only use on special occasions these days. The one that was used to saying, “What’s up my nigga!?” to greet friends. Family. In this new place that word isn’t allowed. I remember the first time I mistakenly used it in public while I was on the phone talking to my sister back home. The natives looked at me like I had pissed on their feet. Now, I only use it in the presence of those who join me in the search for home.

I looked in the mirror and decided that I’d prodded enough. I was ready. It wasn’t until I got outside that I realized—I was still naked.

***

“You haven’t been talking as much lately, is everything okay?” a woman asks me. We share an office, and through this question, I can tell she’s been paying close attention to my actions. As I move to my desk, she follows me with her soft, brown eyes, patiently waiting for my response to her question.

“Yeah, everything is fine! I think I’ve just been tired lately. Schoolwork,” I tell her. I am hesitant to tell her about this quest I’ve been on. Today marks five years and I still have not able to find my way back home. I am in a constant battle between recollection of home and adaptation to this place. I do not tell her that this foreign place is constantly draining me. I fear that I will sound melodramatic, so I try to change the focus of the conversation as quickly as possible, afraid that she might ask more questions.

“You know how it is,” I tell her, “things are just busy. Thanks for checking in though, how are you?”

“Things are okay. Also busy. Schoolwork has definitely picked up.” As she turns away from me, I think for just a minute that maybe she too is drained. In that fleeting moment, I wonder if she is also searching for home.

A Piece of Cake

“How did you find this place?” I ask Olivia as we walk into a small restaurant. I look through the dirty window across the street to the Benz and Audi car dealerships. This restaurant seems out of place. The dim lights in the building are off-putting—almost like the basement of an abandoned home and the grimy floors have begun to yellow a bit.

“I don’t know. I asked Siri where I could find wings” Olivia responds. I smile at her and shake my head. I glance at the large sign on the floor next to the entrance, “Seat yourself and we will be with you.” It is written on a standing chalkboard in neon pink and purple chalk. It’s a nice contrast to the colors that surround me. When I look up, I notice that Olivia and Enaya have already started walking toward a table.

As a child, I never understood how adults knew where to go. “How do you know how to get from here to Granny’s house?” I ask my dad as he drove us in the 1998 Cadillac from one end of Portsmouth to another.

“I just do. You remember the way to get there when you start driving.” Not sufficient.

“But, how? How do you know how to go new places then? Where do you turn?” I am searching for more, a better answer, one that eases my curious mind.

“You just do. How about I remember the way to ice cream on the way home? How does that sound?” I take the bait. As I look out the windows I still can’t help but wonder.

After sitting in two different booths, we decide on a flat-top table. Each booth has red plush seating, but there was not a single one that didn’t have an uncomfortable crack down the middle or along the edge. The white, wispy cushioning emerged from each crack as if it were relentlessly trying to find its way to freedom.

“Hi ladies, whatcanIgetyoutodrink? You just missedhappyhour, buthereisthedrinkmenu.” The waiter quickly says to us. I watch his mouth closely hanging on to each word as it slips from his mouth. I catch myself staring at his almond-shaped eyes and I jolt my head toward the menu before he catches me staring. As he hands the menu to me, I notice his brown skin, though not brown like man. “Asian,” I think to myself.

“What white wine do you have? I’ll take any white wine,” Enaya tells him.

“Pineapple and Hennessy for me,” I chime in, “and can I have water as well?”

“Only water,” Olivia finishes.

We are sitting almost in the center of the restaurant. The L-shaped bar is both behind and to the right of me, and I notice an interracial couple sitting on the right side. They are turned toward each other, smiling. The man’s beige sweater complements his brown skin—his like mine. He reaches over and pushes the woman’s long blonde hair behind her ear. Enaya follows my eyes.

“Sell out,” she scoffs.

“Yeah, I know.” I’m regretful that I’m thinking it too.

“Doubt she even knows why Kaepernick kneeled,” she retorts.

We all laugh.

I wait as patiently as I can for the man to bring our drinks back to the table. 7:28 p.m., my iPhone lights up. I notice I have missed a notification—it’s Alex wondering if I made it safely. I forgot to call. I respond, “Here safely. Out at a weird restaurant bar thing. You have my location. I love you!” I always share my coordinates with him, especially when I’m somewhere I’ve never been before. I’ve always been hesitant to travel. The first vacation we ever took together I refused to leave the hotel room for two days. After three weeks of throwing various places out, we decided that there was a beach close enough to drive for a four-day trip. When we got there, I insisted that we check straight into the hotel and look at the tour guide we got from the concierge’s desk before we head out to the beach. We looked for two days.

“Hereareyourdrinks, ladies. Happy hourstartsateight. Do you know whatyou’llbehaving toeat?” We place our orders and return to people watching. At the back side of the bar, there is a white man. He seems to be in his late sixties and drinking whiskey straight. His faded black leather jacket and boots to match make him look “edgy.” He sits next to a couple of other men, seemingly around the same age. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but every couple of minutes they throw their heads back in laughter and take another gulp out of the glasses that somehow never become empty.

“Look at her fur. It’s beautiful,” Olivia states as she looks toward the entry, watching a small Asian woman enter the restaurant. She’s wearing a fur jacket and dark wash jeans with cheetah print heels that easily give her 5 foot frame another four inches. The men at the bar turn to greet her and so does the man who has been serving us.

“HEEEYYY! SHE’S HERE!” The man in the leather jacket has stood to embrace her and walks her over toward the bar where he and his friends have been sitting. I wonder how they all know each other. Soon, another couple enters and the people at the bar erupt again. Have we intruded on some sort of personal gathering?

“Another interracial couple. There are like four and there are only, what, twenty of us here. Is that weird?” Olivia asks as another older white man enters with a small, Asian woman hanging onto his arm like a child hanging onto her father.

“I don’t know. It seems like they all know each other, though. Maybe they are some sort of organization,” I tell her.

The man brings our food to the table and spins away, returning to the bar where it is much busier than the floor of the restaurant.

“Should we do karaoke?” I ask, biting into the honey barbecue wings I’ve ordered.

“Why not? Enaya, wanna go get the song book? It’s right there.” Olivia points 10 feet away to the front of the restaurant where a DJ has been working to set up his equipment for the past thirty minutes.

As they leave the table to grab the book I watch them, almost like a guard dog, waiting to attack anything that seems threatening. As I watch them, I don’t notice that black leather jacket has left his place at the bar until I feel a hand tapping my left shoulder.

My grandmother and grandfather’s bedroom was always cold and they kept a bulky black chest at the footboard of their bed that I’d always bang my toes against. I pushed open the wooden door, peeking to see if he was awake. I push it open.

“Grandaddy, look. I cleaned your cup for you and filled it with Mountain Dew. What else do you want?” He perks up from the spot on his bed.

“Bring it here.” He motions for me to come in. I push the heavy door open more and tip toe across the dusty hardwood floors toward him.

“Git me one of those oatmeal pies in the chest,” he beckoned. Hurriedly, I ran to the edge of the bed to the chest. “Then get out.”

I hope this is enough for him not to find a reason to spank me today.

“Hello sir, how are you?” I jump and turn toward him. Alex says I’m too nice to strangers. I don’t bother to tell him that “nice” has been the equivalent to safe for me.

“You havin’a good time? I though. Thought I’d come over an say hello.” I can tell he’s had too much to drink. Enaya and Olivia take their seats, this time with the large white book of songs they’d set out for. By this point, one of the Asian women was nearing the end of her Whitney Houston karaoke performance.

“Well hello ta both of you.” The girls and share a quick glance with one another. We all know what it means. They smile sheepishly at him and focus their attention on the song book, leaving me in the crossfire.

“Do you come here regularly?” I ask. I can tell that he does, but my inquiring mind wants more.

“Every week after work. You not from around here, huh?” he points to my sweatshirt with the name of a college three hours away.

“Nope. Just visiting.”

“Can I tell you something?” he continues without my response. “You know. Most . . . most white men are scared of black women.” Enaya and Olivia’s attention pivots.

“I’m not though. And I saw the three of you smiling. That meant y’all would be a piece of cake!”

***

I want so badly to be out of this place. I look around at the natives and I think to myself no one is like me. Are these people made of porcelain? I am immersed in their language, their rituals, and their entire way of being. As each day passes, I grow with disgust about what I am becoming. It is because I know that with the passing of the days I will become more and more unrecognizable to those at home. I am an outsider in this place, but the longer I stay here, the more I risk becoming an outsider when I return home.

Each day, I watch the natives together. I can tell they are comfortable here and I wonder if they will ever accept me as one of their own if I decide to give up my expedition. I take note of the jokes they tell, the songs they listen to, the movies they reference, and the numerous ways to use phrases like, “What the shit?” and “I can’t even.” I store these in my memory.

They begin to replace my (re)collections of home.

I think to myself that I’ve been here long enough, but I wonder what might happen if they are able to see the remnants of home that I am still able to carry with me. I don’t share much about home with the natives. I know that there will be judgment that follows about the way that we get along back there. Though no one has told me, I know that they think that the place they call home is somehow better than mine.

***

Recently, I’ve seen some of the natives dressed in the clothes we wear back home. While I spent this morning dressing in white, they spent theirs dressing in black. I am envious at the fact that their porcelain skin is only highlighted by the color of their garments, while my tar seemingly stains mine. Though the natives only know what my home looks like from the few stories that myself and others have shared, I still wonder if they’ve somehow found their way to my home before I could.

Return

Today I packed the rest of the things that make me think of home in a box.

I placed my belongings in that box ever so gently and I sealed it tightly.

I left my, “What’s up, nigga!?” in that box.

I put my, “Girl, you know you ain’t shit for that!” in that box.

I folded up my, “Bitch!? That nigga did what?!” and I made sure it was nestled between my,

“Oh, you smelling ya’self, huh?” and my,

“I’m not one of ya lil friends.”

I keep trying to place the box in the back of my closet, but each time I try,

“I can’t even.”

That box is most important to me.

My blackness is mine to stay.