Grandma is Afraid to Fly
Fear, Borders, and the Cost of Crossing
Dear Myles,
The last time your grandmother visited us in Alabama, you were not walking yet. As a matter of fact, your neck, still loose, needed our fingers resting behind your head for support. I miss how your whole little head could fit in the palm of my hand, and your body, across my chest, safe in my arms. And I wonder if this is how God felt when He made us—crafted from dirt, molded in His hands, safe in His arms.
I remember the last time your grandmother was here, you had no words, and now you call for her: “Grandma, Grandma!” on your pretend phone. On FaceTime, I can tell she wants to visit. I can tell she’s tired of watching her grandson grow through a screen because frame rates and pixels could never do justice. I can see how, each time she sees you cry, she wants to jump through the glass separating you two and just scoop you into her arms.
My mother’s tongue has betrayed her too many times. How she could never bend it enough to sound just right over the phone when talking to bill collectors, so she used to pass it to me, because I just so happened to be born here. How people have assumed, because her words sound like they’ve been salted, marinated, and cured, that she is less intelligent. And even though she can speak three languages, one for every head of the colonizer’s trinity, somehow she is still not articulate enough.
It’s one thing to be Black. It’s another thing when you are a Black immigrant, and a whole other thing when you are Black, immigrant, and Haitian, with an accent. When you know the land you came from is rich in beauty and history, but White men do what they have always done, and now home is called a shithole, where everyone who comes from there is reduced to eating cats and dogs.
I do not know what to tell Grandma. She is resilient, and I am a believer. My faith tells me, “Fear not them that kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul.” But how do I hide my fear that they will send her to a place she does not know? These men who play god desperately want to kill the soul. Even though I know I am safe in the hands of God, safe in His arms, my present fate lies in the hands of men playing eeny, meeny, miny, moe. She is scared to fly, but wants to see her grandson. I want her to, but I am scared to lose my mother.
Love,
Daddy
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