The Audacity of Black Travel
With every road trip we take and plane we board, our ancestors smile at our continued resilience and defiance of the status quo.
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For my sixteenth birthday, I wanted to spend the weekend at the theme park Dorney Park in Pennsylvania but was especially excited for Wildwater Kingdom, its waterpark brethren.
With the help of my older sister, we made it happen, and before I knew it, we were road-tripping from New York to Pennsylvania.
Honestly, there’s a lot I don’t remember from that trip, which is atypical for me as it relates to waterparks. I have an uncanny love for waterparks.
I don’t remember the names of the rides and slides I went on, nor can I feel the dips in my stomach that lead as my reminder of an adrenaline-filled day.
I don’t remember the crunch from the funnel cake or the pricey chicken fingers that I probably ate with extra ketchup and honey mustard, and most importantly, I can’t remember my joy.
We, my sister and her boyfriend at the time, didn’t have accommodation booked yet, so we decided on the Days Inn, located just across the street from the park.
As we pulled into the winding parking lot on a sunny afternoon, I recall it being noticeably empty and made the quick assumption they would have rooms available.
My quick assumption was wholly based in enthusiasm and impatience — I just wanted to hit the park rather than drive around looking for a hotel.
My sister’s boyfriend and I made our way to the front door of the hotel to inquire about room rates, noticing through the large glass windows, a few people were standing in and around the lobby and reception area.
When we went to open the front door, a white woman appeared.
At first, it seemed she was extending some uncharacteristic northeastern hospitality by opening the door and welcoming us.
Instead, with the door slightly ajar, she poked her blonde head out and said words that were the equivalent to not having any rooms available.
Before we could say a word, she pulled the heavy glass door shut, locked it, and proceeded to wrap a long heavy-duty steeled chain through the interior door handles.
We were officially locked out.
Laced in disbelief, we decided to stay in the parking lot to see if anyone would be let into the hotel after us.
I’m not sure how much time went by, but unsurprisingly, a car of white people pulled into the parking lot and headed to the doors of the Days Inn.
They opened and walked right through the heavy glass doors that were just locked with a steel chain upon my arrival.
Eventually, we found another hotel somewhere along the same road, settled in, and made our way to have whatever fun could be had.
It was still my birthday after all, which lands right around the unofficial start of summer, Memorial Day causing the park to be especially full.
We finally made it to our first slide and were deciding which of the limited cubby holes we should use for our towels and flip flops.
Off to the side, a few feet away, was a white security guard, keeping a watchful eye on us.
He was watching us in a way that made my Black teenage self feel uncomfortable though I couldn’t form the words.
And he wasn’t the only person watching us, so were guests in the park as we walked around.
Sure, I could have brushed the security guard watching us as my paranoia raging, but less than two hours before, we were aggressively locked out of a hotel by a white woman.
I think my “paranoia” was warranted.
Soaking wet from the ride we had just gone on, we arrived back to the starting point to grab our towels, only to find them scattered on the filthy, wet ground.
Confused, we picked them up only to realize one of them was missing — my sisters’.
We searched everywhere, including the cubby hole where we originally placed our belongings but was now occupied by a new set of towels.
One of us looked in the garbage can nearby, and there it was, my sister’s towel. Her towel was in the garbage can where soggy, half-eaten theme park food laid.
The rage spewed from my sister in a way that I had never seen before as it relates to racism.
It was raw, and it was ferocious.
I don’t think about this time often, but recently it’s been coming up as I reflect on the history of Black travel, the institutionalized roadblocks that have been put in place to limit our mobility and my personal, ever-evolving travel purpose.
From the late thirties, forties, fifties, and early sixties in America, The Negro Motorist Guidebook was essential for African Americans taking road-trips throughout the country.
Victor Hugo Green, a postal carrier from Harlem, created this guide that detailed restaurants, hair salons, barbers, restrooms, hotels, and nightclubs that were safe spaces for Black people traveling at a time when institutionalized racism affected every facet of their lives.
The guidebook also included modern-day Airbnb styled listings where Black locals of a particular city would host visiting Black travelers.
Travel by car for African Americans during Jim Crow was a gift of freedom. Taking road trips around the country offered some semblance of control over their lives.
By taking trains or buses, African Americans were subjected to the watchful eyes of white conductors and would have to defer to white passengers even if they were seated in “colored carts.”
In automobiles, they were safe, but of course, there were still rules.
Greens’ book outlined “sundown towns” — towns that were white only, and if Black people (sometimes Chinese and Jewish people) were seen driving in and around neighborhoods, they were to be punished one way or another.
With over 50 years removed from Jim Crow laws, African Americans are traveling the world like never before.
We are exploring and seeing the world freely and on our own terms.
We are living in other countries. We are speaking and learning languages.
We are road tripping in RVs throughout the country that our ancestors built.
We are eating foods that make our tongues dance and are alive at the same time as Jessica Nabongo, the first documented Black woman who has successfully traveled to all 195 countries in the world.
Our ancestors are proud.
When I think about my sixteen-year-old self standing in the front of that Days Inn, I’m unable to remember what she felt, but fourteen years later, I feel rage for her.
I feel a deep sorrow that that experience was part of her reality and a part of our shared existence.
I think about the Black families who traveled during Jim Crow in their cars terrified, knowing that one stop by the police or one wrong turn could be fatal.
I can almost hear the voices of friends and family, similar to the ones I’ve heard as I traverse the world, warning about the real dangers they faced traveling through a country that saw them as valueless bodies.
Black travelers may have been terrified, but they were unwilling to be bonded to a corner in the country. Those days were over.
They were defiant.
That is the very essence of Black travel: A beautiful, daring act of defiance.
