So here we are.
February 18, 2020.
Cape Coast.
Ghana.
We are a group of eleven. Our count includes five Black folks; five whites; and one individual of South Asian descent.
We all stand at this Door for different reasons:
For some, it's an intellectual exercise of engaging with public history and a UNESCO heritage site.
For others, it's a stop along the way to our beach-side accommodations.
And for a handful of us, we were the physical mediums for spiritual reconciliation; we were the carriers of centuries of pain, torture, death, but also hope and resilience.
I had 'returned' through this door a little under a year earlier. It was my first experience walking through the historical stench of this factory of death. The screams and cries of history muffled by the laughter of tourists taking selfies on the unmarked graves of my ancestors.
It was an experience like no other.
And this time around, it was time for me to take a step back and observe how others (of different ages, races, experiences in life, interests) navigated these spaces associated with the Transatlantic Slave Trade.
I was both excited, and nervous, for the days ahead.
As I stood at this 'Door of Return,' at the beginning of the emotional and pyschologically draining (and most meaningful) phase of our trip, I thought of a shirt that I saw Chris Ashley wear almost a year ago in one of my classes: "I am my ancestors' wildest dreams."
No truer words have been said.
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