Essay No. 3: "An American Black Woman in Amsterdam"

It took a twelve-hour flight for me to get an apology for slavery.

The Flight

As I sit on the plane heading en route to Amsterdam, one of the first thoughts that enter my head is, "Thank God, our wedding is over."

The second thought that pops into my cerebral cortex, "I hope people don't see me as an outsider in Amsterdam.”

And the third anxiety fueled thought that forms, "That white lady must be mad at me. I bet she thinks of all the people she had to sit next to on the plane, it had to be the black woman with the cold."

And when I mean cold, I'm not talking about the sniffles. I'm talking about big ole globs of gooey watery secretion running down my eyes and nose. The type of snot that helps award-winning actresses like Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer win awards. Yeah, it is that bad.

Granted, I did get married. And weddings are a pain. Fortunately, I married my longtime partner Jordan. He is a dorky white dude I met at Ball State University – home of notable alumni, David Letterman, Jim Davis, and racist pizza franchise owner of Papa John's, John Schnatter. I know, yikes.

Jordan and I hit it off fairly quickly due to our love of magic. Yes, you read that sentence correctly. Jordan and I love magic. Not in a supernatural way, though I am a Harry Potter stan, but in a literal way. You see, my nerdy boo would show me magic tricks on our dates. And one of the acts included sleight of hand with a coin. He would pick up the object with his left hand. Then place it into his right hand, close it, and poof! The coin is gone, usually returning in his mouth.

Okay, so the trick was a bit corny. But in some ways, it was hella cute, and I adored it.

There are some differences between the two of us. Notably, Jordan is a white man from a small rural town in Indiana, and I am a black woman from the inner city of Chicago. He comes from a close tight nit family, and I uh, do not. These demographic and racial disparities may seem like a point of contention, and sometimes they are. But we are also outsiders, people who do not fit into the binary code of what it means to be a black woman or white man. And it is that outsider status that makes our relationship click.

Jordan is also one of the few people who does not care that I have a cold. He understands. As I said before, planning weddings are hard. Anyone who tells you they are fun to plan is either lying or related to Jeff Bezos.

Now the white lady sitting next to me. Oh, she cares that I have a cold. I can tell by the way the woman covers her mouth and the glances she sends my way. I get it. Colds are contagious. But come on! It is not my fault. Who knew planning a wedding is the leading cause of the common cold?

So, to avoid any drama, I turn towards the annoyed woman and say, "I'm sorry about my cold. I just got married."

She responds, "That's alright. And… congratulations."

Yeah, I use the "I just got married" card. I had to use it. I was desperate. What if this woman caused a scene over my cold? As a black woman in America, there is a high chance it could happen. Yes, it is terrible to make assumptions over a woman I do not know. She might be a lovely liberal-leaning white woman who goes to the farmers market, supports (white) women's issues, and adopts cats from no-kill shelters. But I watch YouTube. I have seen the videos. Women who look just as harmless as she does have repeatedly been caught not letting black people live their lives.

Fortunately, the woman does not call a flight attendant over to reprimand me for my cold. Per the usual, my anxiety about being a black woman in America got the best of me.

Amsterdam

Twelve exhausting hours later, my newly minted husband and I arrive in Amsterdam. Known as the city for people who cannot afford Paris, Amsterdam has a lot to offer to tourists. Sure, it is known for its so-called seedy red-light district and liberal drug policies. But the city is also known for its great craft brewing scene, it's robust art and culture, and most importantly, its diverse populace of 180 nationalities.

As a woman of color in an interracial relationship, diversity is a major factor for me. It is one thing to deal with the brutality of racism in my home country, but it's another thing to deal with it on my honeymoon. Of course, Amsterdam has its own problems with race, particularly its complicated history with Zwarte Piet.

Based on Dutch folklore, Zwarte Pete (also known as Black Pete) is Santa Claus's black slave, ahem "helper." Usually performed by a white Dutchman in blackface, this racist figure puts a stain on Amsterdam's somewhat progressive values. Although people are fighting to get rid of Black Pete, there are still some folks who celebrate this minstrel monstrosity during the holidays.

Amsterdam is not perfect. Its racism is just as problematic and deep-rooted as the United States. But I rather take my chances with some old school bigoted nonsense than risk getting killed by a cop in the United States – especially on my honeymoon.

We leave the international airport and take an electric taxi service to our temporary abode, the Grand Hotel Amrâth Amsterdam. Originally a shipping house called the Scheepvaarthuis (I dare you to say that three times in a row), the massive structure stands in front of us in all its Dutch architectural glory. Amazed at its magnificent beauty, my husband and I sweetly grin at one another. After several months of planning and saving, we cannot believe we made it to the "Venice of the North." Nothing can contain our glee, not even our terrible colds.

Despite our colds and lack of sleep, Jordan and I take in the sights and sounds of the beautiful European city. Fast bikes and people with busy lives pass us by as we walk on the cobblestone sidewalk. Black, brown, tan, and white bodies walk among us. There are tourists, businessmen in suits, grody backpackers, narrow alleyways with hole in the wall stores, chatty middle-aged women, cafes, "coffee shops," train stations, medieval cathedrals, "smart shops," and of course, an endless trail of canals.

Like grime slipping off of my scarred back, the weight of the wedding finally slips off my golden caramel skin. Not only that, but the burden of being a black woman in America slips off too.

For the first time in my life, I feel free.

The Tour

Thankfully we recover from our colds rather quickly. Who knew escaping – I mean leaving the country is the perfect cure for the common cold?

And so, my hubby and I decided to partake in a walking and food tour in the Jordaan District. Possibly derived from the French word "jardin" (meaning garden), the Jordaan District is a borough in Amsterdam that is known for its distinct row houses and serene courtyards. Constructed in the 17th century, it was initially a working-class neighborhood that housed a large number of immigrants. Although the district was considered an impoverished slum in the 20th century, the community has improved and gradually became a hip little hood.

A lovely man named Lars leads our tour. Blonde, tall, and oh so charming, Lars is the quintessential middle age Dutchman. Previously a teacher, Lars, enthusiastically shows us around the historic neighborhood via his handy spiral guidebook. With a family four from Texas and an old French man, we gallivant along in pure bliss. Together we eat warm apple pie from a small canal side cafe called Het Papeneiland, learn about the Jordaan riots, and visit a small quaint almshouse (an apartment complex that surrounds a gorgeous courtyard).

Surprisingly, I do not feel like an outsider on this tour. Despite being the only black woman in our group, my tour guide does his best to make me feel welcomed. He banters, answers questions, and notes several landmarks along the way. Lars even smoothly mentions the Somalian woman he once dated in his youth – and notes the many other girlfriends from his past.

I cherish every minute of the tour. For once, I did not have to prove myself to anyone – black, white, or otherwise.

Then out of the blue, Lars shows our group a map of the world from his guidebook. As he points at the map, he says, "This is the transatlantic slave trade map."

Stunned but thrilled, it takes me several minutes to realize that a white man, who is not my husband, discuss slavery in a nuanced manner. Not only does he point out the shipping routes of the slave ships, but he mentions the trade's impact on the world.

As noted by Lars, Amsterdam became one of the wealthiest cities in the West due in part to the mass enslavement of Africans in the 17th century. Thanks to their fortune, many Dutch merchants constructed beautiful canal houses as a way to show off their success. Not only that, the city created the Amsterdam Stock Exchange (now known as Euronext Amsterdam) as a way for these merchants to safely funnel their blood money. Notably, this stock exchange is still functioning to this day.

But despite this bombshell moment, the one thing that floors me is when Lars says, "I'm sorry."

You read that correctly. Lars solemnly apologizes for his country's involvement in slavery.

Wow. I did not expect an apology for slavery on my honeymoon. I accepted a long time ago that my home country would never apologize, let alone acknowledge the trauma of slavery. So, it was quite bewildering to hear it from Lars. And yet, it was oh so fulfilling.

Granted, I had to take a twelve-hour flight in order to receive it.

And I might have gotten a white lady sick.

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