ghost

I woke at 4:30am on Monday, an hour ahead of my alarm. I was so looking forward to my day in DC that I couldn’t sleep, and I knew I’d have time to doze on the train. I think I’ve been fixated on dandelions and hummingbirds because I realize how central movement is to my identity. I’m a homebody but I’m also a migrant; I’m a creature of habit and cling to my little routines, but every so often I still need to uproot myself and move. I think it’s in my blood. My father was restless and when he slipped into one of his moods, he would get in the car in drive—sometimes around the city, sometimes across the border. I prefer the comfort of Amtrak’s quiet car (no driving means more dreaming). I didn’t get a window seat on the way down to DC, but I still spent the three hours dozing and daydreaming and wondering just how I manage to live this life. I can leave NYC and slip into some other city like a ghost, totally anonymous, invisible, not speaking except to ask for directions. The Amtrak agent said I could take the Metro to the National Mall but I looked at the map and it didn’t look that far. Of course, my feet are blistered now because I wound up walking 20K steps on Monday. I walked from Union Station to the Lincoln Memorial, stopping to visit a few gardens and the Museum of African Art along the way. Then I backtracked and went to the MLK Memorial before walking up to Busboys & Poets at 14th and V. And that whole time no one spoke to me except one brother on the street, and by that point in the day I didn’t even mind because I’d had enough silence to satisfy me. Indie bookstores want authors to support them and I generally do, but some indie bookstores are better than others and the Teaching for Change bookstore (which is inside the cafe) is THE BEST. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many of my titles prominently displayed in a bookstore. I bought a copy of Brown Girl Dreaming while chatting with the sales guys about Ursula Le Guin’s speech at the National Book Awards and the potential of WNDB to create lasting change in the publishing industry. Then I sank into one of the cafe’s plush sofas, ordered a pomegranate lemonade, and disappeared again inside Jackie’s beautiful book. The ladies arrived two hours later and by then I was no longer a ghost; people who knew me called me by my name and my anonymity was gone. There were two women in our party I’d never met before, Nina and Kya, but we all chatted and laughed and shared food as if we’d known one another forever. And that is the migrant’s miracle…in an instant, any place can become home. I *really* like DC. As I dragged myself up 14th Street I could see signs pointing to Carter G. Woodson’s house; many of the blocks I looked down were lined with row houses that looked more than a hundred years old and I thought to myself, “There’s history here.” Other ghosts with stories to tell. I will definitely be going back…

l-r: Edith Campbell, Nina Candia, me, Ebony Thomas, Kya Mangrum, Deborah Menkart