Sticking myself in the eye with a needle is much more preferable than being here in Chicago. It is the end of 2018, the sky is pouring gobs amount of rain, and the weather is unbearably cold – a type of cold that requires multiple layers of outerwear and thermal wear to stay warm. And believe me, those layers are never enough. Not to mention, this city is full of bad to horrible childhood memories. The type of memories that I am not ready to acknowledge in this story. And yet, here I am – lightyears away from my home in sunny California – heading en route via Uber to my Aunt Bev’s townhouse in the South Loop.
Known for its high-end stores, sky-high buildings, and high price homes, the South Loop is the physical embodiment of “making it” in Chicago. Within walking distance from the freezing but beautiful Lake Michigan, this neighborhood has everything to offer for tourists and residents alike, including iconic cultural touchstones such as The Field Museum of Natural History and The Art Institute of Chicago. Most importantly, this area is one of the few places I like to visit during my occasional trips to the city since it represents the good to decent parts of my childhood.
You see, I did not grow up in the South Loop. I am a working-class girl from the Westside of Chicago. And my experience in the Westside has turned me into a slightly damaged but doing-her-best-to-heal thirtysomething-year-old black woman. And despite my misgivings about my hometown, I feel it is my obligation to visit (some of) my family members during the holidays.
Mainly, I am here to see my Aunt Bev and Grandma. If it were not for their support and guidance during my tumultuous childhood, I would not be the somewhat successful woman I am today. Not only did these women encourage me to do my best, but they provided stability when my mother could not always do it herself – notably when my father left her without notice. Yes, they are not perfect (my family’s temper is legendary), but they are my inspiration.
Besides, not all is bad. My adorably nerdy, slightly pale white husband, Jordan, is with me. And he always finds a way to make me feel better – even in stressful situations. For instance, when I revealed to Jordan a few years ago that my biggest fear was turning into my mentally unstable mother (whom I am currently not talking to), my then fiancé responded that it was impossible because “A crazy person never ask themselves if they’re crazy.”
Yeah, my husband gets me. He is like my lighthouse, guiding me through the turbulent waters of Lake Michigan or something.
Within forty-five minutes, we arrive at my aunt’s townhouse. With only our small, barely functional umbrella in hand, we rush to the complex and ring the doorbell. Moments pass and my tall, lanky cousin greets us. As we walk inside the home, my husband and I take in our surroundings. Impeccable as I remember, my aunt’s house looks like it came straight out of home and garden blog. Lux but surprisingly comfortable.
Jordan, my cousin, and I attempt small talk as we wait for my aunt to arrive with my grandmother. Unfortunately, neither of us are known for “polite conversation”. Although my cousin and I are a couple of years apart (me older, he younger), neither of us have seen each other since we were in high school. Ironically, my cousin is just as introverted and adorkable as my husband. And as an extrovert with notable introvert qualities (also known as ambiverts), I am not much help in the small talk department either. Fortunately, the awkwardness dissipates when my Aunt Bev and Grandma enters.
With my grandmother and aunt now in the mix, the visit becomes a nostalgic trip down my family’s historic lane. As we settle into the fancy abode, my aunt digs out a well-preserved white box full of our family’s memorabilia and hands it to me. With my bottom plopped down on the cushy living room couch, I gently shuffle through the box and take out a portrait of my great grandmother. Decked out in a tilted hat and a lux fur coat, my great grandmother, named Magnolia, proves that the bougie side of our family runs deep. I also rediscover notable events from my past, including a program of my high school graduation and various class pictures.
As I continue to look through the box, my Aunt Bev and Grandma begin to tell me several stories about our family. Including how old Aunt Robbie – who is considered the nicest, sweetest auntie in the whole universe – paid to get my ears pierced when I was a baby (a tradition in black families). I even learn the origin story of my given name. Apparently, my mother was supposed to name me after my Aunt Bev à la Gilmore Girls, but she decided to name after the esteemed actress, Phylicia Rashaad, out of spite.
I know, yikes.
Although these stories are great, there is one tale that leaves a profound effect on me. And it is The Story of America.
According to a short essay from a distant relative, America was a slave who lived a remarkable, storied life. Despite married with three children, America’s owner decided to uproot the woman from her home and sold her to another person in Wayne County, North Carolina. Forced to relocate with her children, America had to leave everything behind, including her husband.
Sadly, the poor wife never saw her spouse again.
Several years passed and another slave owner named Dr. John William Watson purchased America and her children. During this time, Catherine, America’s daughter, started a relationship with Dr. Watson. That – possibly forced – coupling resulted in several children, including a son named Eli. This boy grew up, married a woman named Priscilla Whitley, and together they had seven children.
I am a descendant of these children – ancestors who are black, white, and somewhere in between.
As I absorb the history of America and her daughter Catherine, I begin to think about my interracial relationship with my husband, our place in the world, and my complicated feelings towards my family.
During America’s time on earth, enslaved black women mated with white men – usually their master – whether they wanted to or not. Now black women can mate with whomever they wish, no matter their race, sexual orientation, or gender preferences.
If it were not for American and Catherine, I would not exist. I would not be married to Jordan. Nor would I take part in the best and worst parts of my family.
And speaking of Jordan, I wonder if America and Catherine would approve of my union with him? Would they support me, give me the side-eye, or appreciate that I got to choose my “boo.” Does it even matter what they think?
While I will never know the answers to these questions, I know one thing is true:
It feels great to be home.
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