Creative Works by the
Honors Composition II Class, Spring 2004
College of Arts & Sciences
Howard University,
Washington, DC.
Directed by
Professor
Daiyyah A. ABDULLAH Vignette by
Susan C. Mekkawi Web Production
Noël R. Mekkawi
Published by
Howard University
Libraries, 2004
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Ohio
Exposure
by
Hannah
Groce
As
I look out the windows of the plane I see the same
thing I have seen many times before; the plains
of Ohio in the summer, green pastures below, trucks
and cars looking like toys, zipping along toward
unknown destinations. Then we land. I step off the
plane and walk down the long corridor and begin
to feel the heat and humidity cause sweat to trickle
in beads down my forehead. I have landed in a place
my mother affectionately calls the old country.
Both sides of my family are from Ohio, but I was
born and raised in the San Francisco bay area, so
whenever I visit Ohio, I feel like I am in someone
else’s territory, but this time the feeling
is amplified. I notice that the airport is filled
with Midwestern people, wearing plaid short-sleeve
shirts and denim shorts, and then I begin to realize
that I am out of place.
I have
made the trip to Ohio so many times before, but
for some reason on this occasion everything seems
different. This is the first time I have made the
trip without my mother, and, as I age, I am becoming
increasingly self-aware. I wonder which one of these
two factors is changing my impression of Ohio, but
regardless of the cause I feel out of place. I have
never identified myself as anything other than Hannah,
the girl with the glasses, but on this day I feel
like I have to acknowledge the color of my skin.
I feel like all eyes are on me because I look different.
I look to the left, white people, and then I look
to the right, more white people. Walking through
the airport I notice that among the throngs of Midwestern
white folk there is not a single a speck of color;
then I think about why they might be looking at
me. I grip my backpack more tightly as my discomfort
grows and look to my white aunt and cousin who flank
me for some reassurance. I never imagined that I
could feel so uneasy walking through the airport
with my family, but I forgot that in Ohio families
do not really look like mine. If I were at home
it would never be an issue, seeing as the Bay Area
is such a liberal place full of people whose children
look like miniature representatives for the United
Nations, but in conservative Ohio, I am an outcast.
We leave the airport, and my sense of comfort and
security is momentarily restored.
On the
long drive to my aunt’s farm, I find myself
looking into the windows of passing cars and restaurants
hoping to see someone who looks like me, but to
my dismay there are none to be found. If I were
not able to find brown faces in a metropolitan airport,
why should I expect to see any color on the way
to an obscure rural area?
MacArthur,
Ohio is one of those places that remind you of past
eras. People live simply with farms, tractors, and
a few acres of land. It is a place where children
still wait outside their homes early in the morning
to hear the loud diesel engine of the school bus
roaring up the hill, and where dogs roam free, coming
and going as they like and terrorizing other creatures.
The people have a comfortable middle class existence,
but never really know people unlike themselves,
socially, economically, morally or physically. It
is a place where people talk about black people
as if they are mythological creatures that they
hear about but have never really seen. It is rare
to see a black person and if someone from MacArthur
does, it is a big deal, evoking excitement that
resembles that caused by the Loch Ness Monster.
Most people outside of MacArthur do not know where
to find it on a map, and most people in MacArthur
never really think about the world beyond their
zip code. For me, this had never been an issue,
but now that I was older I felt increasingly separate
and isolated. After passing through Amish country,
where the people are clad in simple black clothes
with white button-down shirts and travel by horse
drawn buggy, and after passing through miles of
crop filled fields, we approach the front gates
of my aunt’s farm. The purple fences and horses
grazing in the front complete the majestic feeling
that my aunt’s farm evokes. They welcome me
into familiar territory. Images of past experiences
at Farm-A-Lot flash through my head and then we
park. Once I get the chance to stretch out my legs,
I momentarily forget my experience at the airport
and on the long drive because I am in my fantasy
world, one filled with candy, horses, sun and plenty
of swimming.
Immediately
my younger cousin and I raid the extra freezer for
summertime delights, compliments of the Schwan’s
Man. Our aunt’s array of ice cream and popsicles
have become notorious in our family, and the resulting
sickness from eating these treats is better known.
With popsicles in hand, we head to our favorite
summertime hangout, our aunt’s porch, and
plop ourselves down. We look out over the pond as
we rush to eat our ice cream before the summer heat
devours our treats. We make plans for our trip;
we have to go swimming, go horse-back riding, and
if I have it my way head to Athens, a small brick
paved college town, for some superb candy and trolls
to add to my collection. I was sure that this was
going to be a great trip, in spite of the way I
felt at the beginning.
In the
first few days that I am there I enjoy the sanctuary
that is Farm-A-Lot. I enjoy being able to wake up
late in the morning to sugary breakfasts and having
weather warm enough to swim until nightfall. We
revel in our youth, and we have boundless energy
(perhaps fueled by our excessive sugar intake),
and we are in constant motion. We go horse-back
riding, play with the dogs, torture the pigs, and
spend the rest of our time submerged in the water
and looking like shriveled up prunes. We did not
venture out of our hideaway until the fourth day,
when we made a run to the local store for some more
soda and popsicles since we had already exhausted
our supply. The moment I entered the store, the
uneasiness I felt in the airport returned. I could
sense the stares of the people behind me and the
shift in their activity once I walked through the
door. Their looks were not meant to be disrespectful,
because they were just curious, but their stares
hurt nonetheless. Perhaps they wondered why I was
with all these white people, or how I found my way
to MacArthur, no matter how their gazes were justified,
the feeling was the same. Once again, I felt as
if I had been singled out and as if I did not belong
in this store in this moment, on this day, in this
skin. I wondered if I were just being paranoid,
or if they were really scrutinizing me more closely
than the other patrons, and decided that it was
probably a little bit of both.
When I
was little I am sure there were curious stares,
but my youthful ignorance and my oblivious nature
toward race allowed me to be completely unaware
of the implications of people’s looks. Now
that I was thirteen my race became more significant,
and people stopped looking at me solely as a cute
and shy little girl, and began seeing me as a young
black girl. On that day my perceptions of myself
became less important than how outsiders saw me.
Being in Ohio, away from my stomping grounds forced
me to see that everywhere was not like the Bay Area
and that people would not always be so accepting
of me. This trip to my second home showed me that
outside of the Bay Area I was not the norm, and
that people did see color when they looked at me.
Up until that point, I had never thought much of
my race, if someone asked me I gave them the breakdown;
I am almost half black, a little Cherokee, a quarter
Greek, and a quarter German. I did not think I was
abnormal or that anyone would look at me as anything
other than a nice person. I came to the realization
that to the outside world I was black. That trip
changed me. When I went to Athens and walked around
the brick streets, they seemed different. My utopia
had been forever tainted and my childhood innocence
lost. I have yet to return to Ohio, but I imagine
that if I did go back to Ohio I would never feel
the same comfort I once had. In retrospect I am
grateful for that trip, because it taught me a lot
about the world I live in and how I fit into the
scheme of things. For that I will be grateful, even
if I did feel out of place. |
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