Before

The car ride is quiet. I sat alongside every variation of love I have ever known. There were no words to express how this felt. What this trip meant. So we sat. I drummed and laughed awkwardly. Then were finally at the new fancy Maynard Jackson International Terminal. It was sooo pretty, but it’s blue lights, reflecting off sparkly clean floors, did nothing to lighten the mood. I was leaving for the rest of the summer and the separation anxiety was starting to flare up. We sat and shared words (prompted by my Daddy) about how we felt about this moment. I could start to feel like tear lump climbing up the back of my throat. Soon it was time to board! After a last minute gift arrival and so many hugs I lost count, I turned around and walked towards the security checkpoint. This is where the tears start, but I wipe them off and wave back at love periodically. There is a middle-aged white man heading to Uganda who likes my laptop stickers and is “glad that I give back” (to be unpacked later). When i got  through security  and headed towards the escalator I looked back and saw love, laughing. The tears fell down and I could only imagine what the people who saw me thought. But then I looked down at the 60 dollars’ worth of ink in my left arm.

It reads:

“The dream

& hope of

The Slave”

I can’t cry anymore. I’m embarking on a journey [a journey] that is a part of my life’s purpose and only a putz (yes, I said putz) would take the time to whine over the temporary discomfort caused by separation anxiety I should have outgrown years ago. Once I arrive to the terminal, I am immediately greeted by a sea of eyes attempting to gauge my nationality (or starring at my blonde TWA). They make me uncomfortable but I immediately do the same thing only I, being the Anthro major that I am, take notes. [will insert notes once i find that notepad]