Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. described the indignity that black travelers experienced in his searing Letter from Birmingham Jail. He described the cramped sleeping arrangements in cars that were intimately known by scores of weary black travelers. Black bodies would contort themselves in cramped quarters until they could obtain a position that would summon a restorative slumber. In my teens, my grandmother, mother, and aunt would describe their journey from Arizona to Oklahoma. Stories of how they would drive through the barren landscape of Texas that was made inscrutable by a moonless sky, sustained by food squirreled away in a wicker picnic basket, and rotely singing gospel songs to stave off drowsiness on their way to the safety of my great-grandparent’s farm. I would ask why didn’t they stop at one of the many motels that dotted the highways. My mother would smile and quickly dismiss my question or say something about not having money to afford a motel.
Later I would understand that segregation prohibited them from receiving any respite from their journey in the shelter of a motel. Even later, I would learn about the existence of the Greenbook that would decipher the foreign world that they had to navigate to see their loved ones. This sacred tome was used to ward off danger. It was a talisman that could discern friends from foes. It disseminated where my family could get gas, a hot meal, or a bed. Many of these places were in the homes and businesses of local black people, who provided a service for their fellow black people.
Finally, I learned about Sun Down Towns. Places that littered America’s landscape. Places inhabited by sadistic evil. Residents who achieved unity by declaring that anyone who possessed the Mark of Ham, found within their town’s boundaries after the sun went down, would face serious and grave consequences for this infraction. My grandmother and aunt would talk about my mother’s lead foot. My mother was always the most fearless driver in my family. Her nerves never betrayed her — duststorms, thunderstorms, blizzards, careening mountain passages — when she was behind the wheel. She was not going to get caught in one of these abominations. Black women all knew what these white men loved more than murdering black men: raping black women and then murdering them. This is the story of black travelers in America.
“What you want you, a house? You, a car?
40 acres and a mule? A piano, a guitar?” — Alright by Kendrick Lamar
My mother is still alive, and she is 87 years old; her older sister is 89. My grandmother died five days short of her 101st birthday, all but the last 90 days in complete mastery of her faculties. State-sponsored segregation has been eliminated. The significance of the Greenbook has purposely been diminished to obfuscate why it was required by every black pilgrim. When the night is still, and if you listen, you can hear whispers of Sun Down Towns that remain and desecrate our nation.
Today, if you murder a black person, you might be held to account for your depraved act. Our nation is now connected through a series of interlocking highways and interstates. The once impregnable faded motels with signs advertising HBO and vacancies are required to provide refuge to black explorers. The diners, with their fresh offerings of coffee, pancakes, fried eggs, hamburgers, ice-cold Pepsi, and a variety of confections that once eluded my mother, are now presented for her consumption. Gas stations have morphed into convenience stores stocked with standard and local delicacies, bathrooms in various states of cleanliness, and unlimited quantities of gasoline. These changes inspired my parents to spend my youth crisscrossing the United States by car. First in a green wood-paneled station wagon, then a Dodge Reliant (the infamous K-Car, whose 4-cylinder engine when tasked with conquering the Rocky Mountains almost broke my father), a white conversion van with burgundy accents with white seagulls encased in a burgundy stripe, a rented Lincoln Towncar, and finally a neon green Ford Escort to deliver me to my final matriculation: University of Southern California Gould School of Law.
“Wouldn’t you know
We been hurt, been down before, n****
When our pride was low
Lookin’ at the world like, “Where do we go, n****?”
And we hate po-po
Wanna kill us dead in the street for sure, n****
I’m at the preacher’s door” — Alright by Kendrick Lamar
Each of these expeditions was my parents' act of retribution against a country that attempted to humiliate them. My parents are frugal, one might even describe them as cheap. Normally when I would ask for McDonald's, they would give the common refrain: we have McDonald’s at home, which consisted of a hamburger cooked on the stove served on two pieces of bread, with an ill-fated soggy facsimile of French fries. However, when we were on one of our many treks, we frequently dined in diners. Nothing was off the menu for my brother and me. Every time we stopped to get gas, my family invaded the convenience store like an enemy force. We were ordered to use the bathroom regardless of the state of our blatter. After successfully completing our prime directive, we were rewarded with any treat or totem that we wanted. My parents extended the trip, by stopping each night at a different motel. They deliberately sought motels that had swimming pools. They made sure both my brother and I had a plethora of swim trunks and packed beach towels from home so that every swimming pool that had taunted them in their youth could baptize their seeds. My parents watched over us as if they were gothic gargoyles perched over a city silently protecting its inhabitants. Solemnly wishing a white person would question our legitimacy to be splashing in these once-forbidden reservoirs of fun and refreshment.
My parents could afford for us to fly across this nation, but traveling by car was their personal reclamation of the promise of America. It was them snatching our birthright with both hands. It was them planting their flag in America. They were exorcising the demons of the past. Their sons were the holy water that they sprinkled on the spoiled soil of 30 states. Imbued with divine conviction that the fruit of their union would absolve each diner, convenience store, motel, and swimming pool of its past sins.
My parents traveled across America, by car because they love America and have hope for its future.
This post originally appeared on Medium and is republished with author's permission. Read more of Garrick McFadden's work on Medium.