There are no street lights. No crosswalks nor stoplights to mark your location. The nearest store is thirty minutes away. Down the long stretch of quiet road, all that can be seen are barren fields and the occasional deer.
*
Imagine it's mid-2013. I'm ten, insecure, and a little lonely. My family and I have just moved to a small, rural Virginia town. The shift has taken its toll on me, coming from a city I spent the first eight years of my life in. Suddenly, there were no friendly neighbors to say hi to in the morning, no manicured gardens to marvel at.
I could not shake the feeling that this town felt so empty. Perhaps it was the barrenness of the landscape. Years before my family stepped foot here, an earthquake hit that damaged and uprooted many of the trees. A couple of springs later, they remained there, silent and broken. Or maybe it was the isolation I experienced, and the ostracization felt because of my Blackness. Driving through the Southern town, it was common to see Confederate flags as often as you saw churches. The long and quiet history of segregation and racial oppression was there, seeping through the cracks. Although at the time I didn't yet know the name for it, I still sensed it: the use of slurs, the microaggressions, the persistent idea that the worst thing you could be was a Black girl.
Understandably, a hatred for rural America began to take root in my body. How could a place that others loved and saw much community in treat me so badly? Why couldn't I look toward the land and find the sense of love and intimacy I was searching for?
*
The sun has gone down, and all that can be heard are cicadas and the low chirping of crickets. You see, when living here, you learn to listen closely. Meanwhile, my siblings and I sit outside in the dark, the only source of light being the dim glow from the porch. We talk about anything: school or whatever meaningless inside joke we could not get enough of. Among the darkness, the stars gleam bright, and there is a peace here that I can't quite explain. Although it dissipates as quickly as it was noticed.
*
And what of the past? Of family history? If you'd have asked me four years ago, I'd have said I don't feel a strong connection with my family lineage. Not because I found it unimportant, but rather because the past is purposely hidden from Black American families. But as the years went by, I began thinking more about identity and the past. In many of my college classes we talked about how we are shaped, in both good and bad ways, by the generations that come before us. This all led me to one question: If I completely abandon the roots of my family, where does that leave me?
This question rattled in my brain for weeks, leading me to do intentional research on the oral histories of Black Americans in my hometown. I found that life was tough. Among racial violence like lynch mobs, areas and institutions designated for Black people were rundown–getting little to no resources. Whereas white schools had up-to-date textbooks and perfectly polished floors, the Black schools used hand-me-down books and some even polished the floors with car oil. Despite facing daily oppression and ostracization, they were able to create such a vibrant, loving community. One where they could find reprieve through care.
You'll find that this resilience is a touchstone of Black rural culture in America. I see it today with my own family — during summer family reunions and July cookouts. I see it while I watch my mother laugh with her cousins about the antics of their childhoods, and when my cousins and I play cornhole until the sun sets. I see it in the strength of the matriarchs of my family, and their dedication to raising children that live to see change they won't.
*
As I write these words I look out my window—watching the rain fall among the lush greenery. In moments like these, I often find myself longing for ways to replicate the feeling of home. Something that, years ago, I never would have imagined myself doing. But knowing what I know now, I could have loved my town better. I still can. In some ways, this is a love letter, an offering to my town, my culture, my family.
*
Today, a couple years removed from my hometown, the fields there seem brighter–more full. The trees and plants grow brimful, and the land that I used to see as empty holds so much personal meaning to me. I can't help but think about how my ancestors built a life here, my family too—here in this town I spent years loathing. And although I see my future elsewhere, I hold so much gratitude for the land that raised me.
